


Four Seasons of Loneliness

by rydia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Ferelden, King Alistair, Mild Smut, Romance, Sexual Content, The Calling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-05-09 11:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 63,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rydia/pseuds/rydia
Summary: It's been ten years since the defeat of the Archdemon, when the ultimate sacrifice was made by Alistair. Since then, Solona Amell has made her way through Thedas, always carrying her grief and heartache with her, never forgetting the man she loves.The last thing she expects after a run-in with some Venatori is to be hurled into another Thedas; one in which Alistair Theirin is king and she was the one who made the ultimate sacrifice.A story about strange magic and unexpected second chances.





	1. Chapter 1

Life comes at you fast.

One minute, Solona Amell is in the kitchens of Denerim’s palace, in the midst of a frantic battle with a Venatori mage. She suspects he is the leader of the band of cultists currently attempting to assassinate Queen Anora and plunge Ferelden into chaos. Further away, outside the kitchen, Solona can hear the castle guards and templars drafted in from the Chantry still fighting other Venatori. It’s taken a few weeks but they’ve finally managed to circle in on these cultists that have managed to infiltrate Ferelden’s court.

Solona has ended up in the middle of this quite by accident, but she’s determined to take this disturbingly powerful mage down. She counters his spells with her own strongest ones, keeping her barrier intact and her eyes on her target. Slowly, she’s getting closer to him, wearing him down, and she’s certain she will soon end this.

But the next minute? To use a colourful expression of Oghren’s: everything goes completely tits up. 

“You will submit,” the Venatori snarls as he whips tentacles of lightning at her, draining down her barrier quicker than she’d like. “Corypheus will prevail!”

_Why_ , Solona thinks, _do these cultists always so culty?_

She gets in a particularly well placed fireball, and the Venatori rears back. But he’s against the stone wall now, and can retreat no further. Pressing her advantage, Solona moves in closer, giving him no quarter.

Despite his position, the Venatori laughs, sending a chill down Solona’s spine, and he touches one of his hands to the large amulet around his neck. She’d only previously noticed it because it was so large and garish, and exactly what you’d expect a member of an insane cult to be wearing.

The amulet begins to glow. With his other hand, the Venatori brings his staff in a wide arc about him. Solona takes a step back, because she can feel the magic fizzing, cutting a dangerous path through the air, and it’s not like any magic she’s felt before. 

The Venatori finishes his flourish and points his staff directly at her. His eyes are wild, and Solona’s unease rises. She feels for her own magic, readying herself.

But then it all gets very, very strange.

Crackles of wild energy begin to emit from the amulet, and Solona immediately feels its power and knows that this, whatever it is, is _bad_. She feels it building up around her before she can see it – streams of purple power shoot from around the fingers clasping the amulet, leaping to the staff that remains pointed at her. It’s getting brighter and brighter as it gathers strength, almost too bright to look at, and Solona refreshes her barrier before preparing another fire spell – nothing interrupts a person like being set on fire.

But there is a vibrance in the air, pulsating around her, making her disorientated as she can feel it pressing on her. Solona’s movements are sluggish, her mind and staff not moving quick enough to send the spell in time. She tries to move, but she’s too slow, like she’s trying to walk underwater.

She won’t be able to avoid whatever this is.

The Venatori releases his spell, and it screams directly towards her, engulfing her in magic, dissolving her barrier like it was nothing. Purple fire overtakes her vision, and she’s never felt _anything_ like this – not in her time in the Circle, or as a Grey Warden. Ten years ago, she had watched the Archdemon die, taking the man she loved with it, and even the aftershock of power that had rent through the air was nothing compared to this.

There is a roar in her ears that blocks out everything else as the magic wraps around her body. It’s bubbling unpleasantly on her skin – but, to her surprise, it doesn’t hurt.

Briefly, her eyes meet that of the Venatori through the flames. He looks triumphant, and for a second she can’t understand why, because despite the energy and magic flowing around her and trapping her, nothing else is actually happening.

That is, until she falls. But not to the ground.

No, she falls into nothing. It’s _nothing_. There’s no other way she can think to describe it. It’s disorientating and nauseating, and she’s sure she’s falling because she’s trying to kick her legs and there’s no ground beneath her. But there’s no wind or noise. There’s just terrifying emptiness. She can’t hear her own breath – she can hardly even catch it. Panic wells up in her as she tries to suck in a breath and nothing happens.

There’s nothing.

It is complete darkness. Solona attempts to move her hand in front of her face, but it’s like there isn’t even _air_ here, and she’s trying to move her arm against a strong but invisible current.

She closes her eyes but it doesn’t help the disorientation or stop the nausea swelling up in her and she knows she’s going to be sick – if she lives much longer. Wherever she is, it’s not somewhere she can survive long. She feels chilled to her very core and she wonders if she’s drying, or if she’s already dead. 

Until suddenly she lands, hard, onto the same stone floor she’d fallen through just moments – or was it hours, she can’t tell – before. The unexpected shock of the pain radiating through her makes her gasp, but at least she can breath again, and she greedily sucks in air. Stone walls come into focus around her, the sconces with their bright candles flicker away. The smell of whatever was last cooked in the kitchen lingers, and noise comes rushing back in, although she can’t quite make out what it is through her ringing ears.

There’s a burning snap of magic energy again, but then it disappears completely – much to her relief. 

Despite being on solid ground and being able to gasp in great gulps of air, nausea and dizziness is still rolling through Solona, and her whole body is shaking. She at least manages to raise herself to her hands and knees before she vomits, and she knows she’s possibly still in danger, and that she must rise and fight. But her body won’t cooperate. She’s weak, trembling all over, and she knows she is very vulnerable. But it’s taking everything in her just to hold herself upright and not hit the floor face first. She can’t defend herself.

There’s movement going on around her, and she thinks there are people standing near her. But not attacking. That’s good at least. Solona can only hope they’re on her side and that they’ve killed the Venatori. But some of them are shouting and she really wishes they’d stop. A wicked headache is rapidly forming and, by the Maker, she doesn’t think she’s ever felt so ill in all her life.

But she stops vomiting at last, although tremors still wrack her body as she unsuccessfully tries to get herself under control. She feels so weak, even the effort of holding her body upright is almost too much.

She has no idea what that Venatori has done to her.

An authoritative voice cuts through the babbling noise and activity around her, even managing to pierce through the fog in her own brain. It’s disconcertingly both familiar and foreign at the same time. It’s a voice she hasn’t heard in years but will never, ever forget, and her breath catches, arms trembling, and she wonders just what this magic has done.

She wonders if it has, in fact, killed her.

But she has to look up, she has to _see_. Even if this is a demon, or the Fade, or she’s dead; she has to see if it’s actually _him_.

The voice is close now, and she’s aware of someone standing directly in front of her. With difficulty, Solona pushes herself upright, wobbling as she sits back on her haunches and blinking to get her vision in focus. More than anything, she’s trying very hard to ignore the pain that feels like it’s going to crush her skull and cause her to fall over again.

Her vision clears slightly, and the pain is worth it. So worth it. No matter what has just happened to her and what this place is, it’s been worth it to see the very lifelike figure of the man she loves for the first time in the ten years. _He looks good for a dead man_ , is her first, inane thought.

The man in question has fallen silent on seeing her face, and is simply staring at her, jaw hanging open.

Solona’s vision is beginning to blur again, and she can no longer keep her eyes open. Darkness is creeping in.

“Alistair,” she whispers, a smile on her face as she passes out.

\---

The King of Ferelden has just seen a ghost. He is still looking at a ghost.

Solona Amell is dead. Ten years ago, Alistair watched her plunge a sword into the Archdemon, saving Ferelden but sacrificing herself.

She had done exactly what Alistair himself had intended on doing. And he knew now, that she had _known_ that. When the Archdemon went down, Solona had shoved him out of the way with more strength than he’d known she had in her, catching him by surprise and making him stumble just long enough for her to get to it first, and take that killing blow.

He’d stood helplessly by, and watched her die.

He’d held her as her body grew cold, as his companions tried to speak to him. He hadn’t heard them, or the cheers that went up as the darkspawn fled and news that the Blight was over spread.

All Alistair had seen was her face, her peaceful, resting face, and willed her to open her eyes. He didn’t remember much about the immediate aftermath of the defeat of the Archdemon, beyond her face and that haze of painful grief that still lingered, even now.

Solona had saved him, and every day since Alistair has tried to live with his guilt. It’s not just the guilt over her sacrifice, but also at how he’d ended their relationship just days earlier. He’d known the second he’d done it that he’d made a huge mistake, but hadn’t known what to do to fix it, especially not in the midst of preparing to march on Denerim. He was to be King – and she was a mage. He had thought at the time that he was no longer a naive boy, and that he was doing the right thing. That he _should_ do the right thing.

But Alistair knew now that he’d just been a fool who hadn’t even bothered to fight for the woman he loved.

He hated himself for the fact that whenever he thought of Solona, he remembered not only her face in death, but how she had looked when he told her they couldn’t be together. She’d been completely blindsided by it.

He’d broken her heart, and then he’d let her die.

Now it’s ten years later and she – or something that looks like her – has fallen through a magical portal into the kitchens of his palace. Even by the high standards of such things in Alistair’s life, this is very strange.

And he doesn’t know how to deal with it. So he just keeps staring at her as she sleeps.

He’s probably being very creepy, but he can’t look away. Truthfully, he’s hoping if he looks at her long enough, something about all this will begin to make sense. Or that he’d wake up, or something, because she can’t be _here_.

His first words, after he’d seen her, had been to the guard by his side.

_“Do you see her too?”_

He’d thought for a moment he’d finally lost the plot, but the guard confirmed that yes, he could indeed see this mysterious woman who’d appeared out of nowhere.

There had been a panic, unsurprisingly. Alistair and Eamon had been the only two to recognise her, and they kept it quiet that this was a dead woman – no need to worry everyone needlessly, especially not right after they’d sorted out the Venatori trouble. Or had, at least, appeared to have sorted out the Venatori trouble. A woman who is supposed to be dead arriving right after they’d defeated a bunch of creepy mages wasn’t suspicious at _all_.

But… still.

Alistair had reluctantly agreed to put her in a cell in the dungeons, although he’d made sure they placed her in the ‘nicest’ one; the one kept for the better calibre of criminal, he supposed.

Healers, templars and mages were ushered in immediately. She is no demon, they tell him, she is simply a woman who is very weakened – probably from whatever magic used on her, but they didn’t know what that magic _is_. It’s powerful and unknown to them, is all they could tell Alistair. There are no active spells being used on her; nothing to dispel, nothing that might be altering her appearance or anything like that. They confirm she is a mage, and that she is sleeping off the trauma of what she went through, but will be fine. She is most decidedly human.

Alistair knows that she isn’t a demon, at least. Demons don’t vomit all over your floor and then pass out in it, unless that’s a new thing they’re doing.

But she also isn’t a Grey Warden. There’s no darkspawn taint in her.

None of this makes any sense.

Dragging a hand down his face, Alistair tears himself away from the sleeping woman. He wants to wake her up and demand answers from her, but he’s been advised to let her wake in her own time. Down the hall, at the entrance to the dungeons, is a table. On it sits the weapons and some belongings they’d taken from Solona… or whoever she is. He leaves a templar watching her, to be on the safe side, and hopes that in her bags he’ll find some answers.

\---

Solona wakes suddenly, aware that she’d been having a nightmare but unable to remember what it was about. She blinks, realising she’s staring straight up at a stone ceiling, and she’s lying on a bed of some sort. It’s dim and a bit smelly, wherever she is.

Her head still throbs, making it difficult for her to think. She squeezes her eyes shut again, trying to figure out if everything she’s remembering was a dream or if it actually happened.

Bringing her hands up to her head, she rests her fingertips lightly on her temples, and allows her magic to flow through her, easing the pain.

“None of that!” A voice hisses at her, and the shocking feeling of being smote – something she hasn’t experienced in years – jerks her, and she falls off the tiny cot with a cry, ending up gasping on the floor.

It’s a terrible and sickening feeling, one she’d blessedly forgotten about – until now. Not only is her mana drained and her connection to the Fade interrupted in a very crude and effective manner, but it _hurts_. It’s like her mana is literally being burned from her veins, and it’s always worse when it happens so unexpectedly. Solona feels drained in every sense of the word, and she knows this is going to be leaving her aching for a while.

There’s a commotion somewhere near her, and she hears that voice – _his_ voice – yelling, and she tries, blearily, to make some kind of sense of what’s going on.

She’s at least landed on the ground facing the entrance to her cell. Because that’s clearly where she is. She’s in a dingy cell with one side made up of bars facing into a dungeon.

Lovely.

On the other side of the bars there’s a templar – undoubtedly the smote-happy arsehole himself – and beside him is Alistair.

“But your Majesty!” the templar exclaims. “She was using magic.”

“What kind of magic?”

“Healing, sh–”

“Unless she was using it on you, I don’t care. No more smiting, understood.” Alistair’s tone is authoritative, and leaves no room for argument. Solona might have appreciated it more if she still wasn’t stuck on the fact that the templar had called Alistair _your Majesty_. Or that fact that Alistair is here at all.

_What in Andraste’s frickity frack is going on here?_

Gingerly, Solona pulls herself up, somehow managing to haul herself back onto the cot on her shaking arms. She sits, facing the entrance to the small cell, and watches as Alistair sends the templar away.

He looks good. Really good. And he looks older, like he never died and he’s aged ten years alongside her, more man than boy now. Solona can’t comprehend it, but Maker help her, right now she really doesn’t even care because he’s somehow here and alive and isn’t a demon and this doesn’t feel like the Fade and he’s standing _right in front of her._ She’s in too much pain for this to be some kind of illusion and there’s a tiny part of her wondering if that Venatori hasn’t just done her a huge favour.

But perhaps she’s getting ahead of herself with that. Right now, her heart feels fit to burst at just _seeing_ him and hearing him. It’s enough to momentarily forget her pain. Her grief over losing Alistair has long since settled into a permanent pain inside her, a wound that won’t ever heal completely and even now, sometimes is pulled open completely, the pain as fresh as the day he died. She’s long accepted that she would never get over him and never stop loving him.

So she’s drinking Alistair in now like he’s a good ale after a hard days work. He’s dressed in the type of clothes she’s never seen him in before – clearly expensive, well made, tailored especially for him. His hair is also a bit longer than she’s ever seen it, and tousled like his hands have been running through it. He has a neat beard, and he looks so very handsome it makes her clench.

But he also looks weary, and sad. Her perusal of him ends when he turns and meets her eyes, and she has to look away because otherwise she knows she’s going to cry.

“Who are you?” Alistair whispers, staring at her longingly, his hands gripping the bars of her cell. More than anything he wants to open the door and hold her, but he’s been a king for ten years and if you weren’t at least a little skeptical of weird magical things than you probably wouldn’t remain king for long.

She looks exactly like Solona would be if she were still alive, he imagines. She looks older, of course. Her hair is longer. She’s still so very beautiful – although she looks awful; tired and in pain and vulnerable, drained of her magic. He is so angry with that templar! There’s no need for such heavy handed methods against someone who has shown no aggression.

But Eamon will probably tell him he’s being naive about that. Because this couldn’t be the Solona he knew and loves, and Alistair has to keep telling himself that. This is some imposter wearing her face – _somehow_ , it has to be. No, Eamon thinks this is someone trying to infiltrate Ferelden again, some kind of nasty and cruel final trick by the Venatori, and they must be vigilant. Logically, Alistair knows Eamon is probably right, but he simply can’t be logical in the face of this.

Solona’s eyes meet his again, and his hands grip the bars tighter, a jolt running through his entire body. She looks so despondent.

“Alistair.” She says his name so longingly his breath catches. “I’m Solona Amell.”

_This is torture_ , he thinks. Her voice sounds exactly the same and he has to back away from the cell, turning to pace up and down in front of it. It’s too much.

“No.” There’s anger in his voice. Easier to be angry than it is to give into despair. “Solona Amell is dead. She died ten years ago when she killed the Archdemon. Whoever you are, it can’t be her.”

He hears her take a shuddering breath, and pauses his pacing to look at her again. Solona leans her head against the hard stone of the wall, staring up. He sees a tear run down her cheek. “I could ask you the same thing,” she says, a shake in her voice. “Because ten years ago I watched Alistair Theirin die when _he_ killed the Archdemon.” Her voice cracks as she speaks.

“That’s not…” Alistair trails off, feeling torn. _That’s not possible_ , he thinks, and because none of this is making any sense, he decides to focus on the one thing he knows to be true. “You’re lying. You have to be. Solona Amell was a Grey Warden, as am I. If you are who you say you are, then why can’t I sense the taint in you?”

Solona leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, looking him right in the eye with the steel he remembers so clearly, still there despite her weakened state. “Because I found out how to cure it.”

He shakes his head. This is too disconcerting. She sounds so honest – she sounds exactly as Solona always did.

_But it can’t be her._

Don’t _lie_ to me!” He cries out, stepping back up to the bars again, frustration written all over him.

Her heart aches. “I’ve never lied to you, Alistair.” she whispers and he stills, looking pained.

There’s a moment of silence as they both simply stare at each other. Solona breaks it, not knowing how long this will last – will this spell the Venatori cast wear off? Despite how real everything seems, _is it_? “Alistair. I’ve missed you so much.”

Alistair’s face falls. “You can’t… don’t say things like that! You aren’t _her_!”

Solona’s eyes close, and she feels tiredness begin to overwhelm her, and the pain in her head is coming back with a vengeance. She wishes there was a way to prove who she really is, and then, an idea occurs to her. Her eyes snap open, and she feels for the satchels she always keeps around her waist, frowning when she finds them gone. “My bags, Alistair! In them, there’s a book, there’s –”

She’s cut off by the loud scraping and creaking of the dungeon door opening. Alistair straightens up, turning towards the sound. Within seconds, Eamon comes into her line of sight.

“Your Majesty,” begins Eamon. “Has she said much?”

Solona’s eyes narrow on Eamon. He’d remained in Denerim after the Blight, an advisor to Anora, despite backing Alistair’s claim as king. And he was a good advisor; he was steady and calm and experienced, with an eye always on what would benefit Ferelden. He was genuine in his assistance to the Crown, and in that regard, a cut above many of the self serving nobles that Solona had seen.

But she didn’t like him, and the feeling was mutual. They’d never seen eye to eye, and she sometimes suspected he’d had a hand to play in Alistair’s rejection of her after he’d been declared king – although she knew that ultimately that had been Alistair’s decision.

Still, Eamon’s attitude towards her bothered her for a long time. She had been the one who had entered the Fade to save his son, after all. But she’d learned to let it go, mostly. It wasn’t like she’d been in Denerim that often, anyway. Her duties as Warden Commander had kept her busy until she’d left Amaranthine.

And perhaps Eamon could always sense Solona’s feelings towards him. She’d never forgotten what Alistair had told her of his childhood, and she blamed Eamon for how miserable it had been for him.

All in all, it’s easy to harbour anger against Eamon. And _now_ , of course he is here, still advising, and probably still disliking her.

“No,” Alistair replies, glancing back at Solona. “Just that, according to her, I died ten years ago killing the Archdemon, not her, and that she knows a way to cure the Grey Warden Taint. Boring stuff, really.”

Eamon gapes at Alistair for a moment before collecting himself. “I… I see. Let’s get back to that in a moment.” He turns to Solona. “What magic brought you here?”

“Venatori,” Solona answers warily. The men in front of her visibly tense up.

“Venatori?” snarls Eamon, immediately on edge. “So you are Tevinter, here to assassinate the king?”

“No!” She snaps. Maker, but her head is really beginning to pound again. “I was fighting the Venatori to help the queen –”

“Queen?” Alistair asks as Eamon gives a sharp inhale.

“Yes. Anora is queen where… where I came from.” Solona takes a deep breath, closing her eyes and picking through everything that has happened as best she could, piecing events together, forming a theory, working it out. She’s good at that. It was how she’d cured the Taint in herself, after all. “I think a Venatori mage sent me here.”

Eamon and Alistair exchange a glance. “Why would he do that, and why would you think that?” asks Alistair.

Tilting her head back and opening her eyes to stare into the darkness of the grimy ceiling, Solona considers. “I don’t know why he did it – perhaps as a last resort? I was closing in on him… we’d been fighting here, in the palace. I’d cornered him when he cast this spell. It was magic like I’ve never seen or felt before. It pulled me into this… this realm of nothingness? I don’t even know how to describe it. I thought I was going to die. But I just fell through it until suddenly I was here.”

Lowering her head, she stares at the two men in front of her. “Where I was… Alistair sacrificed himself to kill the Archdemon and end the fifth Blight ten years ago. Anora became queen.” She pauses briefly, before continuing slowly. “A few months ago, did you grant refuge to the mage rebels?”

“Yes,” Alistair replies warily, wondering what that had to do with anything.

“And do you know what happened at Redcliffe with the magister and the Inquisitor?”

He nods. “The magister sent the Inquisitor a year into the future; into a world in which Corypheus succeeded and the Breach is never closed.” Understanding crosses his features. “So you’re saying… if they can send someone into the future, what’s to stop them from sending someone somewhere with a different past?”

Their gazes lock and she nods.

“That’s preposterous,” exclaims Eamon, but Alistair isn’t quite so sure. He’s not ready to believe everything she’s saying, but...

“Uncle, you can’t deny the world itself has been a bit preposterous recently, can you? You remember the big hole in the sky, don’t you?”

“Did the Venatori attack here, too? Did you defeat them?” Solona asks, curious to know just how similarly events have played out here.

“They did,” replies Eamon with a hard expression. “They were hard to root out, but we requested help from the Inquisition. They’ve been eradicated.” There’s a warning tone in his voice that Solona ignores. She’s thinking deeply. Anora had delayed requesting help from the Inquisition to deal with the Venatori threat. They had been expected any day, but… it was clearly too late.

Carefully, she pulls herself to her feet, reaching out to brace herself against the wall. Alistair clenches his fists by his sides. He’s still not sure about everything that’s going on or if this woman is being truthful about anything. But to see Solona – or someone who looks exactly like her – so vulnerable and in pain is difficult.

“The one who sent me here,” she says. “He used an amulet – a big, gaudy looking Tevinter thing. I think it was imbued with the magic and he used his staff to focus its power.”

“I thought you’d said you’d never seen magic like it before.” Eamon’s tone is far too snide for Solona’s patience.

“I’m a _mage_ ,” she snaps, aggravated. “I didn’t recognise what magic he used, but I know how magic _works_.”

“Hm. We’ll inspect the bodies, but if we find anything we won’t be handing it over to you.”

“Maker’s breath, Eamon, _I don’t care_!” Solona hadn’t actually meant to shout, but she could no longer ignore the pain in her head. Standing up had been a big mistake. She stumbles, falling back onto the cot and turns to face the wall.

She’s too overwhelmed to deal with more questions and suspicions, especially not from Alistair, and especially not when she feels like death warmed up.

Alistair sees both the end of Solona’s patience – again, disconcertingly like the woman he’d known – and Eamon’s irritation. Placing a hand on Eamon’s shoulder, he directs his question to the woman in question. “Are you feeling okay… Solona?”

“I need to rest,” is her muffled reply. “It’s been a long day.”

Alistair agrees with her on that, at least.

“We have more questions to ask,” warns Eamon.

“We’ll do it in the morning,” Alistair states and Solona makes a small sound of agreement. She is clearly exhausted. He hesitates for a moment, staring at the tense line of her back and trying to prevent himself from saying something stupid to her like “Good night” or “Sleep well”.

So he just leaves her alone, taking Eamon’s arm and leading him down the hallway to the exit, to where two guards are standing to attention. “The bodies of the Venatori haven’t been burnt yet – see if you can find this amulet she’s talking about.”

“Very well…” Something in Alistair’s eye makes Eamon pause. “What are you going to do, Alistair? This is not the girl you know. Don’t let this ghost of the past distract you.”

Alistair stares at the small pile on the table, ignoring the warning from Eamon. He’d been just about to search her belongings before he’d been interrupted by the templar smiting Solona. He remembered what she’d said about her bags. “I’m going to see if she’s carrying anything of interest. You go on, uncle.”

Eamon departs, a little reluctantly, and Alistair also tells the guards to wait on the other side of the door. One of the most difficult parts of being a king is the lack of privacy, and he doesn’t want an audience for this, no matter how loyal and discreet they may be.

He considers the small amount of items Solona had arrived with. There is her staff, a couple of small, deadly looking blades, and her bags. They are two small satchels, the likes of which he remembers her wearing many years ago. They sit on her belt, snug around her waist, for her to carry essentials in, safe and easily accessible against her body.

Pushing away a little bit of guilt about going through a woman’s belongings, Alistair opens one of the bags. Inside is a lyrium potion and a coin purse. Setting the potion aside, he checks the purse. Some sovereigns, a few silvers.

He stills when he sees the engraving on the coins. Picking up one of the sovereigns to inspect it closer, Alistair doesn’t see what he’s expecting. Instead of the familiar outline of his own profile that took him _years_ to get used to seeing, there’s a rough approximation of a woman that is clearly Anora. Wearing a crown.

Alistair, already feeling unsettled from the events of the last few hours, is now beginning to feel a bit ill. Carefully, he places the sovereign on the table, facedown. He still occasionally has to put up with Anora at court. He doesn’t want to see her judging face on a coin, too.

So he moves onto the other bag. This one only contains a stack of parchment, held within a leather covering. He guesses this was the ‘book’ Solona had referred to earlier and he opens it eagerly, bringing a candle closer to make out the cramped writing.

As he flicks through the pages, Alistair is at first unsure of what he is reading. Notes about magic, he thinks. Not really helpful for someone under suspicion for mysteriously appearing through a magical portal. There are diagrams, lots of things crossed out…

But then as he reads more, he thinks he begins to understand. These are notes on her research into curing the Blight, and his heart speeds up again. There’s a lot that clearly didn’t work, and a faint smile flits across his face as he sees little angry faces doodled beside hastily scratched out sentences and words such as “Does not work! Waste of time!” It’s so very like the woman he’d known.

He looks up and down the hall, to the cell that he knows Solona is lying in, resisting the urge to go to her. Was it possible? Could she be telling the truth?

Deciding his head is too full to take in the complicated looking research, Alistair goes to put it aside for the moment. But just as he’s about to close the cover, he notices something sticking out at the back of the stack of parchments. Curious, he turns over all the sheets to find something wrapped in soft, expensive looking silk. It’s completely at odds to the rest of her belongings.

Unfurling the silk delicately, Alistair sucks in a breath at the stiff, faded pink parchment he’s uncovered, emotions threatening to overwhelm him. His hand shakes slightly as he turns it and sees what it’s holding – what he _knows_ it’s holding – before he drops it on the table like it’s made of fire and stands abruptly. He backs away until he hits the wall, unable to take his eyes off the dried and pressed remains of the rose in front of him.

Over ten years ago, Alistair had given the woman he was falling in love with a rose. She had smiled and teased him gently, blushing as she accepted it. Knowing the flower wouldn’t survive for long, she’d pressed it carefully, hoping to preserve it as best she could. When they’d next visited Denerim, she’d made a rare personal indulgence and bought this fancy parchment in a shade that matched the colour of the rose when he’d given it to her. With a kiss, she’d told him that she would carry it with her everywhere.

When Solona died, it had burned alongside her on her pyre.

And now, somehow, this woman he’d never been able to forget and the rose he’d given her have returned.

Alistair falls to his knees with a gasp and allows himself, in this rare moment of privacy and no expectations from anyone, to weep.


	2. Chapter 2

This time, Solona wakes up slowly. She’s disorientated, only aware that her limbs are stiff and aching. With a satisfying stretch, she releases a sigh, realising that, despite the aches, she’s very comfortable.

The sound of a throat clearing sends her heart racing, and she bolts upright, the heavy blankets she’s been lying under sliding down. Now, awareness comes flooding back into her, completely removing her sleepy haze as she remembers everything that has happened in the last day.

A magic portal, an alive Alistair, and a world that thinks she’s dead.

It’s a lot to think about.

She is, at least, no longer in a cell but in a soft bed, warm under a rich quilt and lying on plush pillows. The room she’s in is small, but tastefully decorated. Over in the corner, standing by the door, is a guard who is looking very uncomfortable and staring rigidly at a spot several feet above Solona’s head.

“Good morning, Miss,” the guard says evenly. “His Majesty requested you be moved from the cells to this room, although you are to remain under guard.”

Solona nods slowly, still getting her bearings. This is at least an improvement on being in a dungeon, although she could do without the chaperone.

The guard continues, still not meeting Solona’s eyes. “I’m to escort you to the baths and then back here for your breakfast. After that, you will have an audience with his Majesty and Lord Eamon, at their leisure.” Making brief eye contact with Solona, she shifts, looking a little vexed. “Lord Eamon has asked me to warn you that there are many templars stationed throughout the castle, and that you are to behave.”

“How lovely of him,” Solona dryly replies, hauling herself carefully out of bed. With relief, she’s steady on her feet – still tired and aching, but recovering. Judging by the high sun outside the window, she slept very late. The rest has done her good.

Glancing down at herself, Solona realises she’s still wearing the same clothes she arrived in last night, which are beyond grimy. A bath would be very welcome.

So she follows the guard, making a brief attempt at conversation before giving up when it becomes clear the guard won’t allow herself to be engaged. Solona does notice a heavy presence of both guards and templars and knows that, at least, it’s not fully due to her own unexplainable presence. They’ve just dealt with a Venatori infestation – no doubt things are the same at Anora’s palace.

Because Anora’s palace – and that Ferelden she has just left – must still exist, all the way back through that portal she’d come through. Surely it is just continuing on, with everyone there thinking Solona is dead, killed by that mage. How else could they explain it?

It is mind bending to try and wrap her head around, especially before breakfast. She only hopes that Anora and her guards were able to stop the Venatori.

She can’t deal with thoughts of Alistair. To even _begin_ to process that, she needs to be alone.

But try as she might, she can’t push the thoughts completely away. Especially not when it’s clear he doesn’t trust her – she’s no longer in a prison cell but the wary, armed guard says it all.

It makes her heart ache to think of Alistair not trusting her. But why should he? Why should she expect anything else? She’s dropped into this world in the most suspicious and unusual of circumstances. Logically Solona completely understands, and she’s _always_ been a logical person.

Although, she supposes, never when it comes to Alistair.

She can’t help but wonder what’s going to happen to her.

Desperately trying to distract her increasingly sombre thoughts, Solona takes in her surroundings – which are actually disconcertingly the same as the castle she was in yesterday. It shouldn’t be a surprise – most of the furnishings have probably been here for generations – and yet it is. She feels like everything here should be different.

It all adds up to make her more convinced than ever that the theory she’d proposed last night is correct – that she is truly here, in another Denerim, and not the Fade or in an illusion or under a demon’s thrall.

Which just leads her to think about the terrifying strength behind the magic used by the Venatori and that fills her with dread. No one should have that kind of power.

The morning is busy in a mundane way – wash, dress, eat. The whole time, the guard hovers nearby, reminding Solona too much of templars in the Circle. She’s been a free mage for well over ten years now, and to be so watched again makes her ill at ease. At least the pleasant and comforting feel of her magic has returned, and along with the bath and food, has helped to make her feel almost normal again – the only normal thing in this situation.

As soon as she’s finished breakfast, the guard announces that she will be escorting Solona to the king. A flurry of butterflies kick off in Solona’s stomach, and she wishes she hadn’t eaten quite so much, briefly fearing it’s going to come back up and Alistair will see her vomiting all over his palace for the second time in as many days.

She doesn’t know how to deal with it, with _him_. More than anything she wants to see him again, but it’s also terrifying.

And Solona doesn’t scare easily.

What she needs is some time. Just an hour or three and a bottle of whiskey, and time to think about the fact that Alistair is not dead and prepare herself to see him. She’s been unable to get over him and it’s been ten years – Solona knows it’s probably not healthy, but the fact is simple: she’s never _wanted_ to get over him. No one else could _ever_ be what Alistair was to her, so why even bother thinking about it.

She’d loved and lost, and it had left her irrecoverably changed.

Once again following the guard, Solona tries to calm herself and still her racing mind. Alistair is the furthest thing away from unkind, but what will he do to her if he thinks she’s some demon or Tevinter taking on the guise of the long dead woman he’d loved? She can only hope to convince him she’s telling the truth and then… and then _what_? They kiss and everything is okay? Perhaps in a child’s fairy tale, but in real life the hidden prince was revealed and then he broke her heart and died, leaving her mired in anger and grief.

Solona hasn’t believed in happy endings for years. She may have, once, when she and Alistair were together, before she had known of the sacrifice required of them, before he had broken her heart.

Her hopes and dreams from that time seemed so foolish and childish to Solona now. 

She is brought to Alistair’s private study – she’s been here recently, but that was when it was Anora’s domain. The guard indicates that Solona should take a seat in front of the large desk and takes up her stance by the door. Solona does so, eyes greedily drinking in the differences between this room and Anora’s equivalent.

The furnishings are mostly the same, but aside from that, it’s nothing like Anora’s neat, cold room. This room, _Alistair’s_ room, is more personal and decidedly more chaotic. She wonders at how the overflowing bookcases are organised – she can see books stuffed haphazardly into the shelves. There are piles of books sitting on the desk, some open and clearly well-thumbed. There are various statuettes scattered about the room – _he’d always loved them_ , she thinks with a smile rising to her face. Some are stone, others are carved from wood, and yet others are clearly made from more precious materials. There are dragons, nugs, mabari, and a large, exquisitely detailed bear.

She takes it all in, delighted to see this aspect of him is the same.

Glancing across the desk again, she catches sight of her own book, sitting innocuously beside a large ledger. It’s full of her notes and research – and in the back of it, her rose is safely tucked away. Solona swallows heavily, staring at it and wondering if she can reach out to take it – it is hers, after all. She’s never been one for trinkets and frivolous items but that rose is so precious to her, even now, after the wear and tear it’s taken from the last ten years. They can take her painstakingly gathered research if they want – that is all still in her head, anyway. What Solona wants is the rose.

But the gaze of the guard is burning into her, and Solona shifts in her chair restlessly, knowing that she can’t reach out and grab it. So she sinks back into her seat, continuing to inspect the rest of the room while trying not to be too obvious about it.

This chair is different to the one Anora had. The ones in her study had been uncomfortable. This one is padded and soft and luxurious, although she’s too tense to really appreciate it.

When she spots the shield hanging on the wall above the fire, she tenses even further.

_Duncan’s shield._

Solona is thrown backwards in time, to when she’d given Alistair the shield. He’d been so surprised that she’d remembered what he’d said, months previously, about wishing he had something of Duncan’s to remember him by. He’d taken the shield from her hands so reverently, and even through his grief as he remembered Duncan, he’d looked at her with so much love before placing the shield down and drawing her into his arms...

She drags her eyes away from the shield and takes a deep breath, trying to get her emotions under control. Blinking hard, she refuses to cry. Not _now_ , she thinks, not right before she’s going to see him, but she can feel it threatening to overwhelm her.

When she hears the door open a moment later, she’s managed to somewhat pull herself together. If there was one thing growing up as a Circle mage was good for, it was for learning techniques to calm down. Solona has not had issues controlling her magic since she was a child, but the lessons in meditation and breath control have been infinitely useful in other ways. It had helped her so much during the Blight, and afterwards in Amaranthine.

But she refuses to raise her eyes just yet to the two men making their way towards the desk. Alistair is speaking to the guard, and her eyes flutter close when she hears his voice. Despite everything, it relaxes her slightly, and she realises that there had been a part of her afraid that he wasn’t really here, that she’d somehow imagined her greatest wish come to life.

More than anything, she wants to look at him, but the thought that she might look up and see him regarding her with suspicion or anger makes her keep her head and eyes down.

It’s only when Eamon pointedly clears his throat that she looks up. He’s standing to her side. Behind them, she hears Alistair dismiss the guard.

“You should rise,” Eamon states in a firm tone, “when the king enters a room.”

It’s a profoundly simple statement, and standard protocol – one she already knows and follows with Anora. But she’d completely forgotten about it.

A creeping, cold feeling slimes it’s way up her back and around her throat. It’s the same feeling she’d had when she’d made Alistair king at the Landsmeet, so long ago. Back then, it had been the knowledge that he was moving far away from her to a place she couldn’t hope to follow.

Now it’s because of the sudden realisation that she actually hasn’t been thinking of Alistair as a king, not really – as silly as that may sound. She has been thinking of him as Alistair, as _her_ Alistair, as the exact same person he had been when she had known him.

“Eamon,” chides Alistair, walking towards the desk and taking the large seat opposite her. “There’s no one else here, it hardly matters.”

Solona can’t look at him. He hasn’t been her Alistair in ten years. This is King Alistair Theirin. How can she be thinking of him as the same man who’d given her a rose, kissed her sweetly, and promised her he’d never hurt her? That had been a lifetime ago.

She can feel the old wound that is her grief ripping open. Last night, she’d had the thought that no matter the reason or the situation or _anything_ , that it would be worth dealing with it just to see Alistair again.

Now she’s not so sure.

After Alistair had ended their relationship, Solona hadn’t known how to be around him. She’d tried her best to hide her heartbreak, throwing herself into preparations for the march and battle. Alistair had been distracted – a newly made king, a Blight to stop, an army to lead. It had been easy to avoid his presence, harder to wrestle with a heart that wanted nothing more than to see him. It had been beyond infuriating having to deal with the pitying looks of her companions, like they expected her to lie down on the ground and weep until she was dead.

And _Andraste’s knicker weasels_ , nothing has changed. Ten years and _nothing has changed_.

She is still a fool.

Unconsciously, her eyes drift back towards Duncan’s shield.

“...even _listening_?”

Solona starts slightly at Eamon’s sharp tone, and she turns her gaze to him. He’s sitting in a smaller chair to Alistair’s side. Evidently, he’d been saying something.

She had not been listening.

With a sigh, Eamon repeats himself. Solona focuses on him, refusing to allow her eyes to slide anywhere near Alistair.

Eamon wants her to recount every single detail of her encounter with the Venatori. A scribe will write down everything she says. He’s clearly still suspicious of her, but Solona picks up on something else in his tone that she can’t quite place that makes her wonder.

Alistair is being unusually quiet, but she can feel his eyes on her. Her skin feels hot and too tight, and her mouth goes dry. She needs to focus and get this over with, so she narrows her gaze on a dragon statuette sitting on the shelf behind Eamon, just over his shoulder. The scribe enters and she tells them everything, staring at the dragon the entire time. Occasionally Alistair or Eamon interject with a question or asking for clarification.

Solona is hardly aware of what she’s saying – she feels like she’s watching someone else speak. Aside from her voice, speaking softly, the only other noise in the room is the scratch scratch scratch of the scribe’s quill as it flies across the parchment, only stopping to gather more ink.

When she finally finishes, a silence falls over the room until Alistair thanks the scribe and dismisses him.

She keeps staring at that statuette behind Eamon. Perhaps she’s been looking at it too long, but she thinks it might be the ugliest thing she’s ever seen.

A thud on the desk distracts her, and she looks down without thinking.

Alistair has placed the big, heavy amulet the Venatori had been wearing on the desk.

“That’s it,” she breathes. “That’s the amulet.”

Eamon and Alistair exchange a glance, as if their suspicions have been confirmed. Eamon quickly scoops it carefully into a leather bag, like he’s afraid Solona is going to snatch it. It prickles at her, but she tries to smooth her irritation away.

“We have confirmed that it is enchanted. Obviously, we are wary of unlocking its magic or destroying it without proper precautions – especially if it is as powerful as you say.”

Solona stares at the space where the amulet had lain, considering. “There is a mage in Skyhold who might be able to help and I’m sure he’d be interested – Dorian Pavus.”

“Why would he be interested?” asks Eamon, sounding suspicious.

“Well, he’s Tevinter.” Suspecting Eamon is going to protest, Solona continues in a hurry. “He’s extremely knowledgeable, and has the library and other resources of Skyhold at his disposal. And I know he’s come across unusual magic before. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”

“But a Tevinter?” Eamon is skeptical. “We cannot trust them.”

“He’s a close companion of the Inquisitor, who trusts him. And he did help put an end to what the magister was doing in Redcliffe, so I hear.” Suddenly she feels tired, and lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “But it’s just a recommendation, it’s your decision, do what you want with the amulet.”

“Solona.” The way Alistair says her name cuts right through her, but still she refuses to meet his eyes. He sighs before continuing. “Do you want us to use it to send you back to where you came from?”

_Does she?_

It’s such an obvious question for them to ask, and one she probably should have considered. But the answer comes easy for her – she doesn’t really care. Whether she’s here or in the other Thedas, she’ll feel like a ghost either way.

So she only shrugs again and repeats herself. “Do what you want with it.”

Alistair makes a noise – she thinks he sounds a bit disbelieving, but Eamon interjects again.

“Very well, we will leave that decision aside for now, as it will not be used until we’re certain of what it does. What I want to do is move onto the issue of curing the Blight in Alistair.”

At that, Solona’s eyes snaps towards Eamon and she frowns. “You don’t trust me,” she says bluntly, “and I feel like you don’t believe what I’ve told you. Why would you believe what I say about the Cure is true?”

Eamon folds his arms, staring at her steadily. “You are correct, I do not trust you. I did not know the Hero of Ferelden that well, yet you are exactly like her. But the fact remains that she has been dead ten years and you arrived in extremely suspicious circumstances that we cannot overlook. I’m holding my judgement on just who or what you are for now. However.” He pauses, and his eyes slide towards Alistair for a second. “I know of the Taint and what it does to a Warden. It is imperative that Alistair be cured, for the sake of the realm. He must have an heir.”

 _Ah yes_ , Solona thinks with bitterness, trying very hard to stop her feelings from showing on her face, _that old nug_. Out of the corner of her eye, she can tell Alistair is fidgeting, probably uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation.

“So,” continues Eamon. “It would be foolish to completely dismiss any possible lead.” He waves a hand at her book on the desk. “This will, of course, be thoroughly tested and verified at every step.”

Solona narrows her eyes at him. “You will need my help.” Her research had mostly been blundering in the dark, chasing leads that often proved to be a waste of time. There was a lot in her notes that could be dismissed, and pointless for them to pore over it all. Skilled mages are also required and are none more skilled than her at this.

She had also had invaluable help and would never have been able to do it alone. Years of preparation had paid off but there had been no true way to test it until she’d taken the cure herself.

“I suspected as –”

Sitting up taller and raising her chin, Solona cuts him off. “Contact Leliana. She helped me. As did Dorian. Get them to verify… I’m assuming you read far enough in the notes to know that the Cure requires fresh dragon blood?”

Both of the men in front of her start slightly. “I did not,” Eamon replies, stiffly.

“Dragon’s blood?” Alistair’s voice is incredulous.

“Yes. They’re resistant to the Blight. Their blood helps to… purify ours.” She does not take her eyes off Eamon, who clearly hadn’t considered the cure would be _this_ tricky. “Even aside from the dragon, I fear this is just as dangerous as the Joining. However, my research is sound. The magic has been tested. I’ve spent years on this. That,” she nods to the book, “only represents a fraction of what I put into it.”

Eamon gives a quiet hum. “But it definitely worked for you?”

“Yes. I took it while I was still hearing the false Calling – it disappeared, it’s no longer in my head, I no longer have the dreams. I can no longer sense darkspawn. I eat less and I can’t handle my drink anymore, but it’s a small price to pay for no longer slowly turning into a ghoul.”

“So you… you killed a dragon and then drank its blood?” Alistair sounds almost impressed.

But his question makes Solona grimace as she remembers. The whole experience had not been pleasant. “There’s more to it than just the blood but… yes.”

“That’s…”

“I know.” Her tone is glum.

“A dragon,” murmurs Eamon faintly. Rousing himself, he picks up a stack of parchment and Solona’s book from the desk, glancing at Alistair. “I’ll begin making some preparations and –”

“Wait!” Solona reaches out to stop him taking the book. “You can take the notes but there’s something personal at the back of the book that I’d appreciate having back.”

Eamon looks suspicious, but Alistair responds. “I have it.”

She sits back slowly in her chair. “O-oh,” is her intelligent response.

With raised eyebrows, Eamon finishes gathering what he needs and walks towards the door, out of her line of sight. Solona remains carefully staring at the ugly statuette on the shelf, mind whirling. Eamon speaks in a low voice that she still catches. “Shall I have her escorted back to her room?”

“No,” replies Alistair evenly. “I want to talk to her privately.”

Solona stiffens, her heart pounding. Alistair’s tone is unreadable, but Eamon’s exasperation is clear. “Alistair, that is unwise.”

“Your objection has been noted, uncle.” There’s steel in his voice now, and clearly Eamon has learned there’s no point in arguing with it.

Eamon sighs. “Mage,” he says, raising his voice. “There are guards and templars right outside this door, ready to intervene if you make a move against the king.”

Solona ignores him, and takes a deep breath to try calm herself at the irritation that always shoots through her at being called _mage_ in that tone.

“Alistair, would you at least consider having a templar drain her mana?”

Solona’s hands grip the arms of her chair like a vice. She’s doesn’t care, she is _not_ going to sit there passively and let them–

“No.” Alistair still has that tone in his voice. “Besides,” he says, a bit lighter. “We spoke alone last night. She didn’t turn me into a frog then. I think we’ll be fine.”

That was true, yes, but Alistair is conveniently leaving out the fact that her mana _was_ drained when they spoke last night.

Her grip relaxes a bit. She can’t help but wonder, _does he trust me_?

Alistair and Eamon exchange a few more words before the latter leaves and the door shuts behind him. The silence that falls in the room feels oppressive to Solona, and it’s just one more thing that’s changed. She was never uncomfortable in silence with Alistair before.

He sits in the chair facing her again, and she can hear him shifting around. “Solona,” he begins, his voice catching. “I…” His voice drops to a whisper. “ _Please_ look at me.”

It’s not a command, it’s a plea.

Although it doesn’t matter what it is, really. She wouldn’t deny him either way. Her head turns and she meets his gaze, and there’s a tenderness in his warm eyes that makes her want to cry. She tries to speak but she can’t form words around the lump in her throat.

It hurts. It hurts so much to be within touching distance of him and yet still be so far away. 

Alistair clears his throat, looking down for a second and fumbling with one of the drawers of the desk. He then pulls out a silk wrapped item – her rose.

Solona bites the inside of her lower lip to stop it from trembling. By the Maker, she’s never been one for crying but everything about the situation she’s in has her stretched thin.

Alistair handles the parchment like he’s aware of how precious it is to her, placing it gently in front of her.

“I was surprised to see you still have it.” His voice is thick, like he too has a lump in his throat.

Her heart clenches and she blinks, trying to clear her eyes. When she speaks, it’s just a whisper. “I told you I’d carry it with me everywhere.”

“For the… for the last ten years?”

She nods, reaching out hesitantly to unwrap the rose, flipping over the parchment with shaking hands. The rose still holds some colour, although it’s more than a little battered after so many years, despite her care. Delicately, she touches a petal, just needing to confirm with every sense that it’s real.

It sits between them; a talisman inscribed with their love.

Her eyes raise from the rose to his face, and she can see how it’s softened as he gazes down at it. He looks so disconcertingly like his young self that Solona aches in a way she never thought possible. It’s deep in her bones, a longing for something that can no longer exist.

Alistair’s eyes are shining as he meets her own again. He stares at her and a silence stretches out as he looks into her eyes like he’s searching for something, but this time it isn’t uncomfortable. “Solona.” Her name is a prayer on his lips. “It is you, isn’t it? Everything about you is… it’s you. I feel like I’d know you anywhere, even after all this time, no matter how completely _bizarre_ this all is, it’s _you_.”

This time, Solona can’t blink away the tears. This isn’t the voice of the king issuing orders, or the dispassionate voice he’d used with Eamon. This is _Alistair_ , speaking how he used to speak to her; when they’d both been so young and hopeful, despite the horror of the Blight and the heavy burden on their shoulders. Her breath hitches in a sob and as her vision blurs she brings up her hands to wipe away the tears. She knows she should say something to him, but she just can’t speak. She can hardly catch her breath.

Without realising he’d even moved, Alistair is suddenly _there_ , right in front of her. His face is so close she can feel his breath, and his hands cover hers, gently moving them away from her face and replacing them with his own, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks to remove the tears. Her eyes flutter shut at his touch, and she feels so utterly overwhelmed. Solona can hear the loud gasping breaths she’s taking, but she can’t get herself under control.

Alistair’s hands leave her face, but only so that his arms can wrap around her. She clings to him as he pulls her forward, and they both sink to their knees on the floor. He presses himself to her as firmly as she does to him, and Solona can feel him shaking against her. His cheek is pressed against the top of her head, and his warmth seeps through her. His intoxicating, comforting presence is all around her and in this moment she thinks it’s a miracle that she’s survived so long without it – and that she won’t have the strength to do it again.

She presses her face into the soft fabric of his shirt, right over his heart, and her own hands grab fistfuls at his back. She hears his own sobs, and with his cheek pressed against her, she feels his tears trickle into her hair.

It makes her sob even harder and hold on even tighter, like a damn has been broken and she isn’t sure she’s ever going to be able to build it back up again.

_He believes her._

It takes a while but finally Solona begins to calm, breathing deeply against his chest, relishing the feeling of being _home_ again after so long. She allows her hands to graze down his back, feeling the strong muscle under his shirt until they come to a rest at his waist. He sighs against her as she pulls back slightly before she moves her hands up his chest. As he raises his head to meet her eyes, she lets her hands keep skimming up into the open collar of his shirt, to rest on his neck. His pulse is hammering under her palm and his eyes are wet and red-rimmed. She suspects hers are much the same.

This time it’s his eyes that flutter close as she touches his face. _He’s too pale_ , she thinks, and she imagines him cooped up for hours hearing petitions, listening to squabbling nobles, reading missives, doing everything a king does and she wonders if giving him the crown was a cruel mistake on her part. There are lines on his face now, worry and responsibility resting heavy upon his shoulders. Her fingers brush over them, wishing she could wipe it all away.

He’s still so handsome; the only man she’d ever met who could ignite her with a look. As her thumb softly passes over his lower lip, his eyes snap open, and Solona thinks her thoughts must be clearly visible on her face. She freezes, unconsciously licking her own lips and his eyes dart down and darken.

Solona isn’t sure who actually initiates the kiss but as soon as his lips slant over hers she knows she has no intention of stopping, consequences be damned. She’s immediately lost to the sensation, her mouth hungrily opening up to his, needing to taste him. When their tongues meet, she anchors her hands in his hair, holding him against her. Alistair’s own hands are wandering restlessly; across her back, to her waist, down to her backside, up to her neck and then back down again, like he’s trying to touch her everywhere at once.

For Solona, in that moment, everything else ceases to exist. There’s just Alistair; his taste, his smell, the solid feel of his strong body against hers. Heat flows through her and desire that she thought she’d never experience again is setting every nerve on edge. Alistair is kissing her with a desperation that’s easy for her to match, but when one of his hands graze over a breast and she arches into him with loud groan, he pulls himself away – although he doesn’t let go of her.

Alistair’s expression is dazed, his breathing heavy. “I didn’t… that wasn’t…”

But there’s no way Solona is ready for this to end just yet, a fear within her that this might be her only chance to kiss him again, so she pulls herself up catch his lips with her own. Alistair makes no complaint and readily falls back into her. She reaches to untuck his shirt so she can touch his chest, the desire to feel his skin overwhelming. It’s Alistair’s turn to groan into her mouth when she runs her nails lightly over his torso.

But she’s finding herself frustrated with their awkward position – she can feel his erection pressing against her stomach, but neither of them can get any satisfaction while they’re both kneeling upright on the ground. Running on pure instinct, she presses lightly on both his shoulders and he quickly takes the hint, sitting back on the floor and pulling her into his lap, barely breaking their kiss. Solona wants more, though, and pushes his shoulder again. She feels his smile against her mouth as he willing lies back fully, taking her with him and she thinks fleetingly that she’d love to see that – to see him smile again – but other desires are currently more pressing.

She kisses him even deeper now, her hands again in his hair, her own hair falling around them like a curtain. She’s straddling his chest, so she shifts herself down his body, the dress she was given to wear hiking up over her thighs. When his erection hits her exactly where she needs it, she stills and moans. Alistair hisses in pleasure, both his hands running down her sides to grab handfuls of her backside and encouraging her to grind on him.

And she does, oh _Maker_ , she does. It feels so good, and she knows exactly how much better it would feel without the barrier of their clothes in the way. The thought makes her clench.

Their kisses grow sloppy, their breathing heavy and loud in the quiet room. Solona arches upright with a breathless moan. She’s so close, and when she rests her hands on Alistair’s chest, he grabs them both with his own, holding them to him. He’s watching her with heavy lidded eyes that remain locked on her face, his hips thrusting up to meet hers in the most delicious way as they both chase a pleasure they’d thought they would never experience again.

Suddenly, Alistair rears up and switches their positions as Solona finds herself now on her back. Alistair’s mouth moves to her neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin and he angles his thrusts to meet her right where she needs it – like even though it’s been ten years, he still remembers exactly how to make her see stars. She gasps out his name in keening desperation, again and again, like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she doesn’t.

He doesn’t disappear. Solona can only clutch at his arms as she falls apart underneath him. He swallows her cries with a kiss, groaning into her mouth himself when he finds his own release not long after her.

Alistair drops his head back to her neck, and she closes her eyes as they both try to catch their breath. He’s keeping the bulk of his weight off her with his arms, but she’d forgotten how good he felt on top of her.

And under her.

_Maker’s breath._

But she knows there’s only so long they can hold back reality. She wishes she could hold onto this moment for longer.

“I can’t believe,” Alistair eventually mumbles into her neck in a droll tone, “we just did that.”

Solona can’t help but laugh because she feels the same way. She hasn’t experienced frantic over-the-clothes grinding since she was a teenager at the Circle. With Alistair, they’d just progressed from kissing to actually getting their clothes off.

She feels lighter than she has in years.

Alistair raises his head to look at her, and smiles in the most endearingly bashful way. It makes Solona’s heart feel full. “You know, I really wasn’t intending on ravishing you, I just wanted to talk.”

Raising her eyebrows, she smiles back at him. “I think more clothes need to come off for it to count as ravishing.”

He blinks slowly and he’s so close she can see his pupils widen. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Anyway,” she says softly. “I wasn’t complaining.” Her hands smooth over his hair, and her nails gently scratch at his scalp in the way he’d always loved. With a sigh, he closes his eyes and drops his head into her neck again. He enjoys her ministrations for a moment before bringing a hand up to the other side of her neck and raising his head again, gently turning her face and seeking out her lips.

This kiss is gentle, a warm, slow building flame rather than a fiery explosion like their last one. Solona pulls away slightly before she can lose herself in him again, just far enough away so she can look into his eyes.

She strokes his cheek, enjoying the feel of his stubble under her fingers. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve thought of you everyday and I’ve never… I’ve never...” She struggles to put into words how she feels. Alistair has always been far better with pretty words.

“ _I know_ ,” he says fervently. “Maker’s breath, I know. I feel like I’m going to wake up at any minute.”

Alistair pulls himself up then, and Solona could whine at the loss of contact. He winces as he stands, clearly uncomfortable with the mess in his trousers. When he helps her up, he keeps his hands on her arms. “We really do need to talk and I…” he glances over at the clock sitting on the mantelpiece. “I have a meeting soon,” he finishes glumly.

“I don’t regret what happened, Alistair,” she says firmly. “But. Yes. I suppose we do need to talk. There’s… a lot to talk about.”

“An understatement if I ever heard one.” His eyes flicker towards the door, making Solona belatedly remember that there are guards just outside who quite possibly heard exactly what was going on in here. She wonders if Alistair is thinking the same thing.

It’s quite possible the entire Ferelden army could have marched in on full parade and neither of them would have noticed.

Alistair takes a deep breath, his eyes on her again. He takes her hand that’s on his arm and brings it to his lips, kissing her palm. Solona sucks in a breath and exhales shakily, and she swears her knees go weak when he moves his lips to her wrist, kissing her pulse point. She forces her eyes to stay open, to see the desire flare up in him again just as it is in her.

It’s with a groan that he lets go and takes a step back. “I really have to go and change my trousers. And then I should probably do some reigning. But…” He trails off before his face brightens. “Tomorrow? Would you like to take a walk in the gardens with me?”

He sounds almost shy, and she can’t help the smile that crosses her face. “I’d love to.”

“Good! That’s… good.” Alistair glances towards the door again, and then frowns. “I am sorry about the guards. Eamon is insisting, and things here are quite tense after, well, everything, and I need to keep up appearances.” His face twists a little.

“It’s okay,” she says softly, and she means it. She might not like it, but she can understand. This is complicated, and Solona knows from her time at Vigil’s Keep that command is never easy.

“No, it’s not. I think… a lot of things aren’t okay. But, tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she repeats solemnly. She can wait, and now that the euphoria of her orgasm has worn off, she again feels the pressing need to digest everything that has happened – and now things are even more tangled than they were this morning. What had happened in this room today – she hadn’t ben expecting that.

But Solona can’t extinguish the spark of hope inside her. She can only hope it won’t be cruelly snuffed out again.

\---

Unsurprisingly, Alistair spends the rest of the day in something of a daze. Somehow, he gets through his meetings, but his mind is still back in his study, stuck on how Solona and felt, smelled, tasted, sounded. He still can’t quite believe he’d rutted against her like that, like he’s some pimply faced adolescent with no self control. He’s sure that grown men in their thirties do not do that, much less _kings_.

Mercifully, there’s nothing important to be decided, and his absent-mindedness doesn’t cause any kind of political incident.

Also mercifully, it was true that Solona hadn’t minded and was indeed an active participant but Andraste’s _ass_ he hoped it wouldn’t complicate things between them further. It was just that as soon as he was close to her, it was like the last ten years had been erased and he’d done what felt right and natural – he’d kissed her. And then it escalated pretty quickly. 

Later that evening, he finds it a bit easier to concentrate as he transcribes some letters – probably because unless he doesn’t, the scribe will write down every stupid word that comes out of his mouth.

All in all, he’s kept busy right up until supper after which he is finally, blessedly, left alone.

But being alone is a double edged blade. Because he’s free from expectations and can sit in his underpants and eat an entire wheel of cheese while reading _Hard in Hightown_ and no one can judge him for it or tell him it’s _unseemly_.

But he is also so very _alone_.

It was this loneliness that had driven him in the past to entertain Eamon’s efforts at matchmaking. He’s always known he needs a queen and an heir – he’d given up Solona because he’d known that – and he couldn’t put it off forever.

But even aside from that, the idea of a companion was just so appealing to him. It wasn’t that he was looking for love. He knew very well he was still in love with a woman who was dead. So no, not love, but perhaps a friend and a partner. If he could find someone he was comfortable being alone with and could be himself with, he thought it would make everything so much easier.

It didn’t take long for Alistair to come to the conclusion that Eamon had terrible taste in women. Oh, they were all beautiful, accomplished, educated, refined. They were all very interested in becoming queen, less interested in Alistair himself. He’d found them difficult to talk to, his jokes fell flat, and more than one of them made him feel stupid.

He’d realised with some horror that all of the women Eamon picked reminded Alistair of Isolde in some way, and he’d rather spend the rest of his life alone than married to a woman like her.

But perhaps it didn’t matter how many women Eamon paraded in front of him. Alistair knew there was nothing stopping him from making his own enquiries and finding a bride more compatible to himself. There were plenty of perfectly pleasant, unmarried women at court. But it was never going to be the woman he wanted – the woman he’d left precisely because they couldn’t marry and have an heir.

And the idea of having a child with anyone else is abhorrent to him.

So he had never looked for himself, and he’d dismissed Eamon’s suggestions, only eventually tolerating them occasionally to appease Eamon.

And now? The only woman he’s ever wanted has literally fallen back into his life.

But he’s still a king and she’s still a mage.

Eamon remains concerned, but Alistair can see that he’s beginning to believe that Solona is who she says she is – although he knows it will take time for Eamon to fully trust her, if he ever will. And Alistair is certain it’s her. Even if the coins and rose hadn’t convinced him, the way she’d reacted to him today would have. He still can’t quite believe it, that someone she’s here and she was in his arms just hours ago.

So what is he supposed to do now?

What he wants to do is this: he wants to go to her room, right now. But he knows exactly how that will end up – them being alone in a room with a bed probably isn’t wise. Although his heart and body is disagreeing with his mind on that. It would appear in that regard, at least, nothing has changed. He always gravitated towards Solona and it is obvious that the feeling is still mutual. It had taken them months to move beyond kissing but once they had, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

He smiles, thinking of her.

Before they’d ever been involved romantically, she’d been his best friend. After they’d gotten together, she’d been his everything.

Alistair wonders if she still could be.

For a long time he sits and contemplates the consequences of any actions he might take.

But really, he knows what he’s going to do. He’s not going to back away from this. If Solona wants to leave and go back to where she came from, he’ll support that decision even if it would be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

But if she wants to stay or can’t go back, Alistair is going to make sure she knows how he feels. He’s spent ten years grieving her and unable to move on, regretting his own foolishness at letting her go.

And with the exception of not marrying and providing an heir, Alistair feels that he is a good king. He’s continually growing into the role, and it’s satisfying to hear that Ferelden is doing well under policies he implemented.

Of course, the Breach in the sky and the war between the mages and templars has upset a lot of things, but it’s not like they’re _his_ fault, even though, as king, he’s often made to feel like everything bad happening _is_ his fault.

But the fact remains: he’s sacrificed a lot of personal happiness to be king. Even him _being_ king is breaking a lot of rules – a Warden, a bastard. Why not break some more, especially now that he’s proven himself?

Alistair has spent so long resigned to his fate and his loneliness.

But no longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thoughts on the Blight cure are mostly ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ so vagueness is deliberate. But it is canon that dragon blood is resistant to it. I'm rolling with that.


	3. Chapter 3

The palace gardens are beautiful and they are, Solona notes with interest, very different from Anora’s gardens. Anora had favoured a more Orlesian style – her gardens could have been lifted straight from the Winter Palace, what with all the manicured, low hedges, tiny trees and artfully coordinated patterns and flowers. There had been wide, smooth footpaths, with the central feature being the huge, ornate fountain.

It was, of course, very pretty.

But Alistair’s garden is something else. It had a controlled wildness about it that reminded Solona of him. The gardens of the Denerim palace aren’t huge, but she feels like she could get lost in this. There are lots of tall trees and bushes, and all kinds of flowers growing everywhere. She suspects many of them are wildflowers, seemingly growing untamed among tall grass. The footpaths are narrower, but still well cared for, and they wind around into all kinds of hidden areas, allowing anyone to explore easily.

There seems to be so many places to disappear. Solona wanders under an arch ringed with roses that leads to an even wilder part of the garden where there is no path, only grass in a small clearing with some seats and a table. All around there are flowers of every colour. She turns back to take another path, and rounds a tall hedge to find the same large, ornate fountain that’s in Anora’s garden – something that obviously predates their rule. It’s another unsettling moment for Solona, a reminder of this strange situation she’s in.

But despite that, Solona loves this garden. She can almost forget she’s in the middle of Denerim here – even the sounds of the city outside the palace seem muted. All around her she can hear the rustling of leaves and grass as a gentle wind blows. Above her, the sun is shining in a bright blue sky, dappling through the tall trees. She can hear birds and bees and spots a flash of white as a rabbit dashes away from her, into the safety of the undergrowth.

Even though Solona’s nerves are building at the thought of seeing Alistair again, this is a calming place to be. She’s waiting for him now, having been escorted to the gardens and told that His Majesty would be with her when he is ready. She has to wonder at what the guards think of her, but they’ve all been impeccably neutral around her; not rude, but not friendly. They are, however, letting her wander about the garden as she waits, although she knows they’re still keeping a watch on her.

She’s just glad she hasn’t had to deal with another templar since her night in the cells, though she’s been careful not to use any magic, just in case.

While she’s been waiting a few minutes for Alistair, it doesn’t bother her, not when she’s in a place like this. It’s allowing her to gather herself. After her... chat with Alistair the previous day – if you could call it that – Solona had been escorted back to her room where she’d spent the day sitting by the window and trying and failing to read some of the random assortment of books that sat on a small bookcase.

The guard had remained all day, a silent presence in the room that left her feeling on edge and unable to process what had just happened. But after she’d been served supper, she’d finally been left alone. Oh, she’d been given a firm warning about guards and templars being right outside the door – but they were still outside the room, and Solona relished the much needed privacy.

She had curled up in her bed, facing the fire. As night fell and the flames dipped lower and lower, she’d replayed every single thing that had happened to her since she’d fallen into this world.

Her thoughts had at first lingered over Alistair’s kisses and the feel of him against her when she probably should have been lingering over issues of more consequence. She wanted to dwell on each and every touch, but the hard truth was that she needed to face the reality of the situation she was in.

It was frustrating to not have any pen and parchment to hand. Solona had always found making lists and teasing out answers to complicated problems on paper a great help. And right now, her whole life is a complicated problem.

Even disregarding the tangled web of her relationship with her former lover, current king; Solona is in a world in which everyone thinks she is _dead_. If she stays here, that is going to take some careful navigating.

Despite that, Solona had meant it when she’d told Alistair and Eamon she didn’t care if they used the amulet to send her back or not. She no longer had any strong ties to any person or place. Oh, she’d be mourned by some people, but no one she was particularly close to anymore. It was only recently, when she’d gone to Skyhold to find some help with the Cure, that Solona had realised how she’d kept everyone at a distance. But she hadn’t known how to fix it.

Anyway, everyone always inevitably moved on, probably relieved to be away from the too solemn Warden Commander and her shroud of sadness.

The only person who was somewhat of an exception to this was Leliana, and even then, they’d gone long stretches with no communication. Leliana would grieve, but she had a busy life at Skyhold and was currently in the running to become the next Divine. Her happiness did not depend on Solona.

She briefly wondered if the Leliana here would accept her as readily as Alistair.

 _Alistair_.

And inevitably her thoughts would return to him.

Now, away from his presence and overthinking everything, she’d become increasingly worried about what had happened between them. Conflicted did not even begin to cover how she felt. It had been wonderful, and she couldn’t bring herself to regret it, but it had also been incredibly foolish and immature – especially when they hadn’t addressed anything between them.

But _Maker’s breath_ , it had felt so good.

Her complicated feelings hadn’t stopped the hope that had sprung up in her from the moment they’d kissed from dissipating. That hope is still there, even though Solona knows that she _really_ should know better – there’s just such a huge risk of this ending badly, most likely with her getting her heart broken all over again, this time in a world in which she shouldn’t exist.

But still that hope is there, clawing into her and telling her to walk straight into this; risks be damned.

These are the thoughts that have been circling around and around her head since the previous day. In all the difficult decisions Solona has had to make in her life, she’d never agonised over one like this before. Becoming a Grey Warden, even making Alistair king and turning down Morrigan’s offer – they had been easy to decide.

It wasn’t that she didn’t consider the impact of these decisions, she just knew what the logical choice was and went for it.

Of course, it didn’t mean those decisions – or one in particular – hadn’t hurt her grievously.

Now? Going back to where she belonged made the most sense. No matter what, she wasn’t supposed to be _here_. Some kind of twisted magic had made it happen and it should be undone.

 _Surely_ it should be undone?

The rattling of amour as the guards pull themselves to attention startles her out of her thoughts, and she turns to see Alistair entering the garden, his eyes on hers.

Solona’s mouth goes dry, and she’s thankful for the the time it takes Alistair to dismiss the guards to allow her to get her bearings.

Would she ever get used to seeing him again?

When they’re alone, he smiles at her warmly. Bashfully, she thinks; like he too is remembering the heated kisses and touches from yesterday.

“Hi,” she says, inadequately.

“Hi,” is his grinning reply, and his eyes rake her over. “You look beautiful.”

His statement is so simple and sincere it makes her heart jolt in her chest. She glances down at herself, at the deep blue dress she’s wearing. “Oh, well,” she tries to reply lightly but suspects she’s failing miserably at it, “I should wear a dress more often.” Solona raises her eyes to Alistair’s and immediately looks down again because if he keeps looking at her like that they aren’t going to get any talking done today, either. “The lady’s maid who helped me dress said this was last season’s fashion, but it was all they had at short notice and it was ‘unbecoming’ for me to be wandering the palace in armour or travelling clothes.” She looks up at him through her eyelashes as she skims her hand nervously down the dress. He’s following the movement, his eyes lingering on the flare of her hips. “At least they’re not Circle robes, at least,” she finishes weakly, aware she’s rambling a bit.

Alistair’s eyes snap back up to hers, and he’s still grinning. “The dress is lovely, don’t get me wrong, especially around _this_ area,” he gestures to his collarbones – the dress isn’t especially low cut, but it exposes the tops of her shoulders and the barest hint of décolletage. This cut was all the rage last season, apparently. “That’s very… nice.” He clears his throat. “But you could be wearing a shapeless sack and still look beautiful.”

If anyone else said something like that to her, Solona would probably scoff at them. But she’s always been so disarmed by Alistair’s genuineness and charm and she can’t help but smile at his words.

They both stand there, a pair of smiling idiots, until Alistair seems to remember himself and clears his throat again. He approaches her then, taking her arm in a very courtly fashion and leading her through the garden. For a few minutes they make small talk, until Solona stops to peer in through some interlocking trees to a small, almost hidden alcove beyond where she can see a pond.

“I love this garden,” she says softly before turning back to Alistair. “You’ve clearly taken an interest in it.”

Alistair looks surprised. “How can you tell?”

“Anora’s are very different. Far more Orlesian. Very neat.”

“Of course.” The mention of Anora briefly makes Alistair tense, before he relaxes. “Well, I spend a lot of time cooped up in the palace, it gets a bit gloomy. I wanted to have somewhere nice to go outside and not require a retinue.” He rolls his eyes. “I hired a gardener – he’s actually from Orlais but got tired of making the same tiny hedges everywhere. He is determined – and I quote – ‘to make Ferelden less brown’. He’s very much in demand with the nobles these days. Who’d have thought my instructions for long grass, big trees, and colourful flowers would become a trend?”

 _That’s the power of the king_ , Solona thinks, but doesn’t say out loud. Their conversation is light and she’d like it to remain that way for as long as possible.

Both of them are happy to dodge the big questions for the moment. The gardens give a good illusion of privacy – there’s no one else in the immediate vicinity, but Solona knows there are plenty of guards nearby. She suspects they are keeping everyone else out. She has to admit, as she takes in all the flowers, the little pathways and trees and streams, she would never have expected this from an Orlesian gardener.

Although the stone mabari statues dotted about the place were most likely not an Orlesian idea, she’s sure.

She really does love it.

So as Alistair shows her all the nooks and crannies of the garden, they talk of the last ten years. She tells him of her time as the Arlessa of Amaranthine, and how she’d remained there as Warden Commander of Ferelden for years until her ongoing research into the Blight had taken her far west.

That had been two years ago.

She’d left Vigil’s Keep in good hands – or so she’d thought.

“I never expected them to abandon Amaranthine, much less follow Clarel’s plan. I know they were scared, but…” She shook her head.

“They were taken advantage of,” Alistair says, gravely.

“I know,” Solona replies quietly. “But I feel like if I had been there, I could have stopped it. I heard what happened at Adamant. I got to Skyhold shortly after the siege.”

“No one could have anticipated Corypheus.” Alistair looks pained. “And you really shouldn’t blame yourself.”

She doesn’t respond to that. She most certainly could. She is – or had been, at least – the Warden Commander of Ferelden. She should have been there to do something. The thoughts of what had happened to the Wardens keeps her awake at night. Over the years, her feelings towards the Order itself had soured, but she had cared for the Wardens she’d worked with. “I hope that the Cure can at least make up for it, a little. Wardens are necessary and important but the Order itself is...“

“Incredibly shady?”

One side of her mouth quirks up. “That’s one way of putting it. I’m worried when I tell them about the Cure, they’ll hush it up. Or tell me they already know about it, but don’t want anyone else to know, and have me killed.”

“I’d say you’re being paranoid, but by all accounts things from Weisshaupt have been odd for a while now.”

She makes a hum of agreement. “You know the Champion of Kirkwall has gone to Weisshaupt?”

Alistair is surprised. “Seems like a strange decision.”

Solona makes another hum and falls silent for a moment. “Did you know… he’s my cousin?”

“Really?” Alistair’s eyes are wide. He knew she’d always felt like she’d been ripped cruelly away from her family when she’d been brought to the Circle. Understandably, he thought. And she’d never had a way of contacting them.

“His mother was an Amell,” Solona says absently. “Hawke’s sister is a Warden, but she’s safe, apparently. I was hoping to get a letter to her…” She trails off.

“You can still do that.”

“I know,” she says quietly, “it’s just very strange. Everyone is who they are where I’m from and yet, they’re not. Because they all think I’m dead or they never met me, but I know them or I’ve known them for the last ten years. I don’t know how to deal with that.”

Alistair looks helpless. He doesn’t know how to deal with that either.

Solona continues. “I don’t even know if it’s right that I be here.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Alistair says quietly. “It doesn’t feel wrong. It felt wrong for you _not_ to be here.”

Solona takes a deep breath, feeling torn. She still doesn’t know what the right thing to do is.

Alistair sees her struggling and decides to change the subject for now. “We can talk about it more later but right now, I have to ask. What’s Anora like as queen?” It’s a curiosity that’s been nagging at him, a what if he couldn’t stop thinking about. In the early days of his reign, when he was struggling to stay on top of things and manage his grief, he’d often wondered why he was putting himself through this, why he hadn’t just let Anora take the damn throne. Those thoughts had long since stopped, but since Solona’s return, some old, prickling feelings of insecurity have resurfaced as he thinks about Anora as queen.

Solona shrugs, bending over slightly to inspect some flowers, but she’s glad of the change of topic. “She’s a good queen, actually. Respected, although it would be a push to say she’s _loved_. I do think she did most of the ruling when Cailan was alive so she already knew what she was doing. She’s kept Ferelden stable and made a number of new trade agreements. Things have been difficult for her recently, though.”

“Oh? Because of the Venatori?”

She shakes her head. “No, because she’s now forty years old and there’s no heir. She married one of Arl Wulff’s sons, Aedan, a few years ago.”

Alistair blinks. “But he’s....”

“A lot younger than her?” Solona says wryly. “Yes. He comes from a large noble family and was expected to be… virile.” She stands upright, staring at nothing. “I don’t particularly like Anora, but I feel for her. She _has_ been a good queen but it’s like none of it matters because she, as I so often have heard, ‘fails in her duty as a woman’.” Solona scoffs. “Everyone is already wondering what will happen. Will the Wulffs move in, claiming that Aedan has the right to be king due to his marriage to Anora, as she did through her marriage to Cailan? It doesn’t sit well with many people. Others are saying Fergus Cousland could take the throne – did he remarry here?” At Alistair’s nod she continues. “So he has heirs, and is from a respected and old noble line. He’s well liked and would have the support of many if he were to make his claim. No doubt there are others plotting to advance themselves. Anora is only forty years old, but they’re planning for her death. There will probably be civil war. And she knows this.”

Alistair nods, grimly. He knows it’s an issue that will become more and more pressing for him too, but he’s protected a bit more simply due to his sex. Solona has given him a glimpse of what he can expect as he gets older.

Solona takes a few steps away from him, walking under yet another wide arch, this one covered with ivy. When she speaks, there’s a hint of nerves in her voice. “While we’re on the… subject, I just want to say that I understand now why you ended our relationship ten years ago.”

An ache shoots through Alistair at the mention of it. “You have to know,” he says desperately, “that I’ve regretted that since the moment I did it.” He walks to stand beside her, and touches her shoulder gently, wishing he wasn’t wearing gloves so he could at least touch her skin to skin. Solona fiddles with her fingers, not meeting his eye. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Moving away, Solona crosses her arms. “Well, you did. I’m saying I understand, not that I’m… I’m _okay_ with it.”

“I don’t expect you to be; _I’m_ not okay with it.”

Solona stares at him, and now the desperate look is on her face. There’s a lot she wants to ask him – what does he want from her? How does he feel about her? _Should_ she even stay here? But she can’t bring herself to, just yet. She has a confession of her own to make, first.

“I need to tell you something.” When he moves closer to her, Solona holds up a hand. “Would you mind… staying over there?” Hurt briefly flashes on his face and she hastens to explain. “It’s just easier for me to concentrate when you’re not so… close.”

“Oh.” A pleased look crosses his face. “Well, that’s good to know.”

Solona takes a deep breath, ignoring his smirk. Best to get this all out at once. “The night before we marched on Denerim, Morrigan came to me. She told me there was an out – that neither of us would have to sacrifice ourselves to kill the Archdemon. She –”

“She wanted me to lay with her and impregnate her with a baby that held the soul of an old god, yes.” Alistair’s droll interruption takes Solona by surprise, and she lets out a noisy exhale.

“Oh. You knew.”

He looks faintly amused, but she can’t imagine why. Nothing about that situation had been funny.

“Yes, she approached me – I think it was right after you’d declined her offer. And oh, was she angry! Not exactly setting the mood,” – his tone is dry –“even if I’d been so inclined. Words were said and she insinuated some things about my manhood. I’m sure you can imagine. She took off right after she realised she was never going to convince me to say yes. One of the stranger conversations of my life, I must admit.”

“...I had no idea you knew.” Solona feels a bit blindsided, having spent ten years wondering if she’d made the wrong decision. If she hadn’t been so angry at Alistair for breaking up with her, would she have approached him? Could it have saved them both? They’d still have been apart, but at least he’d have been _alive_ and she would have been marginally less miserable.

But she knows deep down that she made the right decision – it had been one of the easy ones to decide – but it would be a lie to say she’s never wondered about it; about both of them surviving together, torturing herself with thoughts that drove her grief deeper and deeper, letting the wound fester.

“Can I ask,” Alistair says, “why you didn’t tell me about it before the battle?”

She frowns at him, like the answer should be obvious. “I told Morrigan it wasn’t my place to ask you to do that. Even if we’d… we’d still been together it wouldn’t have been my place. The idea firstly of asking you to lay with someone you hate was appalling, but then the thought of it resulting in a child who’d never know its father? It seemed a cruel thing to ask of someone who grew up like you did.”

Alistair is surprised by the emotion in her voice, and by her reasoning. She’d been thinking of _him_. “Did you think it would work?” he asks quietly.

She nods. “Yes. Morrigan knew what she was doing and she was prepared. But… I couldn’t ask it of you. I just couldn’t. I told her she’d need to talk to you herself, and she wasn’t happy.” Solona gives a short, bitter laugh. “She told me my tiny mind belonged in the Circle and called me a fool, among other things. She was probably right.” 

“No,” Alistair responds vehemently. “She was wrong. She was a miserable, _wrong_ woman.” Solona smiles at him faintly and he loses his train of thought for a moment. “And… thank you, Solona.”

“For what?”

“Just for… being you.”

She raises her eyebrows. “But I made you king.”

“Yes, you did, but nobody’s perfect.”

She shakes her head, unable to make light of it. “I’m glad you knew.” Her voice is so quiet, he strains to hear it. “I was worried that I’d made another decision for you even though I was sure it was the right thing to do. I was willing to…” She trails off, her face twisting at a rush of memories, and Alistair frowns.

“What?”

Her eyes flash to his. “You were _never_ supposed to take the final blow on the Archdemon.”

“So you made _that_ decision for me?”

“Yes, I suppose I did. Sorry I tried to save your life.” Solona replies sarcastically. “What were you even thinking? You’d just been made king! You weren’t supposed to die! How could you make me watch you die!”

“Neither were you!” He shouts. “I had to watch _you_ die.”

The sounds of footsteps and rattling armour stops their argument. Alistair turns to see guards running towards them. He holds up a hand. “Stand down,” he snaps. “There’s no danger.”

The lead guard looks hesitant, but lowers his sword, glancing from Alistair to Solona, picking up on the tension between them. “Y-yes, your Majesty.”

The guards leave, but the tension doesn’t, and a silence drags out between them. Eventually Solona sighs and turns away, walking towards the large fountain. She turns and sits on the edge of it, facing Alistair, and he’s struck by what a pretty picture it makes, Solona with the water falling behind her, surrounded by flowers and greenery. The sun is shining down on her and all he really wants to do is pluck a colourful flower and put it in her hair.

She probably wouldn’t appreciate that right now.

“I don’t want to fight.” Solona sounds weary.

“Neither do I.” Alistair moves to sit beside her on the edge of the fountain, hesitant for a moment before he places an arm around her shoulders. To his relief, she immediately leans into him. “But I think it’s safe to say there are things we’re both angry about.”

She gives a noise of agreement in response, and they both know there’s a lot left to be said.

“Why haven’t you married, Alistair?” she asks, softly.

He could tell her about the various women Eamon picked out as possible brides, how he longed for companionship while not expecting love. And he would, hopefully, tell her all that in the future. But Alistair knew the real reason he had never bothered to seriously consider a marriage.

“Because you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry.”

With a start, she pulls away to look up at him. Her eyes are glassy and her voice shakes as she asks him, “Still?”

“Always.” He takes her hands in his. “I’ve never stopped loving you. And I know I pick my moments. First time during a Blight, second time during a weird magical misadventure. But I know too well how it is to live without you.” Reverently, he brings a hand to her face, cupping her cheek. “I don’t want to do it again.”

“Alistair,” she murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I’m still a mage.”

“I know, but I’ve been king for ten years and I know my own power. And the world is changing. And _anyway_ I’m, uh, not asking you to marry me right now. I suppose I’m just asking you to stay. With me. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“I want to…”

“I sense a _but_ coming.”

“This is all just very complicated,” she says slowly.

“When has it not been?” Alistair searches her eyes, wondering at the reasons for her hesitancy. Something deeply unpleasant occurs to him. “If you need to get back, I understand, and I’ll still help you. I just had to make it clear how I felt.” He pauses. Do you have someone… waiting for you back there?”

She shakes her head, thinking of the few times in the last ten years she’d sought out companionship, driven by a desperation to escape the loneliness. It always resulted in her feeling worse. Her heart just wasn’t in it. “No, nothing like that. It’s just…” Solona takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to have to go through breaking up with you again.”

He flinches. “That won’t happen.”

“You can’t promise that. If we’re together, it could cause problems for you. What if you decide it’s too much?”

“Are you saying,” Alistair asks slowly, feeling hurt, “that you don’t trust me?”

Solona stares at him for a long moment and answers truthfully. “I trust you with my life, Alistair. But I don’t trust you not to break my heart again.”

“Oh.” Alistair deflates. Her words hurt him, even though he can understand perfectly well why she’d feel that way. He did break up with her, after all, and he would never forget the look on her face when she’d realised what was happening. Dread settles in the pit of his stomach. “You’re going to be sensible about this, aren’t you?”

Solona gives a slight scoff. “I’ve never been sensible about you.” She stands and turns to face him. “I’ve never been wrapped up in anything as much I’ve been wrapped up in you. Since the day I met you. There’s no one else because I don’t have anything left to _give_ anyone else.”

“Trust me when I say that I know what you mean.”

“But you’re still king.”

“You know that has nothing to–”

“It has _everything_ to do with it!” Solona snaps, frustrated.

“Well, maybe you should never have made me king,” he says, almost petulantly.

She turns away, beyond annoyed. Somewhere in her mind it registers that this is probably the most she’d felt in the last few years. She’d become numb, going through the motions. Maybe when she isn’t so angry she’ll appreciate that.

Instead, unable to keep still, she stalks away. Alistair follows, at a bit of a distance but he’s still surprised when she suddenly whirls around, her long dress and hair swirling about her, making her look like an angry goddess.

“I was trying to do the right thing!” She wants to shout, but she doesn’t want to risk the guards returning, so she ends up speaking in a repressed hiss. “I knew you’d make a good king and you said you’d come around to the idea!” Dragging her hands down her face and pressing her fingers to her eyebrows, a horrible thought comes to her. “I’m sorry,” she says, a bit more calmly, her voice muffled behind her hands, “if you’ve been unhappy.”

Alistair steps up to her, and hesitantly places a hand on her arm. When she doesn’t pull away, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her into him. Solona goes willingly, as she always had done. She reaches her own arms around him, and rests her cheek against his shoulder..

“No, I’m sorry. Again. I’m really messing this up.” He sighs. “I haven’t been unhappy because I’m king. I’ve been unhappy without you. It wouldn’t matter if I were king or not, I just… Maker’s breath, I just can’t stand the thought of losing you again.” She squeezes him tighter in response. “I know that’s selfish, and maybe I shouldn’t ask it of you to stay and maybe it would be best if you went back just in case it’s unleashed some kind of new terror on the world, but–” Alistair sighs. “I don’t care. I’d rather face it all with you because I’ve been hopelessly in love with you for over ten years and I want you to stay. Again, with me. In case it wasn’t clear.”

Solona lets his words settle into her. They warm her, healing the wound that is her grief, but she still can’t shake the fear inside her; the fear that she’ll be left having to pick herself up and carry on alone, again. “I want to stay,” she speaks softly into his shoulder, unwilling to meet his gaze, “but I’m scared.”

She’s ashamed to admit it. Solona Amell, (former) Warden Commander of Ferelden, doesn’t get _scared_. But she is adrift, in a world that thinks she is dead. If Alistair casts her aside she will have to carve out some kind of existence here, where she shouldn’t even exist.

The realisation that she doesn’t trust him startled her – she hadn’t quite realised it until she’d said it. Oh, she meant it when she said she’d trust him with her life – in a battle, there was no better man to have by your side.

But her heart? She wanted to trust him, so much, but she couldn’t forget. It had been easy to forgive a dead man who sacrificed himself for her, softening his imperfections and the hurt he caused her to make him more perfect in her memory. The real man – like any real person – is imperfect. He can’t promise not to hurt her because no one can promise that to another.

Trust could be rebuilt, she’s sure of that, but it would take time. And time would mean staying here. And that means a big risk.

And it terrifies her.

Alistair’s embrace tightens, and she feels him kiss the top of her head. “Well, at least that makes two of us, then.”

“If I stay…” Solona trails off, lost in thought. Alistair stays quiet, letting her think it through. His hands gently caress up and down her back, and Solona takes a deep breath and looks up at him. “If I stay, what do we tell people?”

“The truth,” Alistair replies firmly. “Or at least, a version of it. I don’t want you to have to pretend to be someone else. Maybe we can leave out the Venatori, or modify it to have less terrifyingly powerful magic. It tends to put people on edge. And only the Wardens know the truth about slaying an Archdemon. Perhaps it didn’t kill you just… sent you to sleep for a while?” Solona raises her eyebrows at him, skeptical, and he raises his own suggestively back at her. “Maybe you can be like Sleeping Beauty and you were awoken with a kiss from a dashing prince.”

Despite everything, Solona laughs. “A prince?” Her tone is teasing. “I wouldn’t wake up for anything less than a king.” 

“It’s a good thing I got promoted then, isn’t it?”

She smiles up at him, heart fit to burst, and says the only thing that comes into her head. “I love you.” His face softens and Solona brings her hands around to sit on his chest, fingers curling into the rich fabric. His own are still on her back, keeping her pressed against him. Their faces are tilted towards each other; the perfect picture of lovers.

Solona looks away from his beaming face for a second. “I probably didn’t time that well,” she says sheepishly. “I’d love you whether you’re a king or… or…”

“A pauper?” Alistair supplies helpfully. “A Grey Warden? A _templar_?” He whispers the last part in a salacious tone.

She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “A templar might be pushing it.”

Alistair laughs at the expression on her face, and kisses her nose lightly. “Understandable, but I think I’d have looked very fetching in those skirts. Shame I never got to wear them.”

Her expression smooths out and her mouth pulls up in a smile, but she falls silent again, her eyes dropping to his chest. Alistair knows she’s still mulling everything over and also keeps quiet, letting her think.

“I do love you,” she says softly, eyes flicking back up to his. “I can’t believe I get to say it to you again.”  
  
“I know,” Alistair replies. “And you know I feel the same way.”

Solona takes a deep breath. “And I want to stay. I’ll stay.”

Alistair’s face splits into a breathtaking smile. “Truly?”

She nods. “I’m still worried. But I can’t stand the thought of walking away from you–”

He kisses her then. Hard. With a wild gasp and no hesitation she responds, pushing herself onto the tips of her toes and anchoring her hands in his hair as she opens her mouth to him. Alistair is gentle but insistent, pressing her to him, his hands seemingly everywhere; smoothing out the fine fabric of her dress, into her hair, and then one hand is gripping her hip while the other rests on her neck, his thumb over her racing pulse. Solona feels like she’s melting into him, like she can’t get close enough to him. Her hands fall from his hair, to his shoulders, his arms, his backside, pulling him into her. He groans, breaking away from her lips to kiss down her throat; sucking at the pulsepoint where his fingers had just been. His hand is now grazing down over her breast, and Solona is aware of how harsh her breathing is. Her eyes close and her head falls back, giving him better access to her neck. Once again she brings her hands to his hair, and his lips drift further south, over the collarbones he had so admired earlier, and his hand on her hip grips tighter –

A loud and exasperated sigh nearby makes them both freeze, their eyes meeting as they slowly pull away from each other and look towards the sound.

Eamon is standing nearby, glaring at them. To his side is a guard, who has his eyes cast directly upwards at the sky, pointedly nowhere near the king, in an almost comical fashion.

“Uh. Eamon.” Alistair tries and fails to sound unruffled. He’s still standing close to Solona, and he shuffles, for all his age and experience looking exactly like a naughty schoolboy. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Evidently,” Eamon replies dryly, and then he sighs. “I can’t say I wasn’t expecting something like this to happen, but I thought it would take longer than two days.” He casts a critical look at Alistair. “You’ve refused to marry for ten years but you couldn’t keep your hands off her for two days?”

Alistair’s expression hardens. “When you’ve not seen someone in ten years, Eamon, two days feels like a lifetime.”

Eamon drags a hand down his face, and Solona thinks he very much looks his age. Glancing towards the guard, Eamon dismisses him. “You may leave. As you can see, his Majesty was in no danger.”

The guard glances from Eamon, to Alistair, to Solona with wide eyes, before bowing vaguely in Alistair’s direction and scurrying away.

There’s a beat of silence as Eamon regards Solona. “You are truly an inconvenient truth.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, my lord?” Solona keeps her voice even.

Alistair places an arm around her waist, keeping her by him. It had been Eamon’s words, many years ago, that had convinced him to leave Solona, that it was _for the best_. If he wants her to trust him, he’ll have to show he won’t be swayed again. “It means he believes you. He just doesn’t _want_ to believe you.”

“I’m still reserving my final judgement for now, but… yes.” Eamon looks resigned. “It would be easier if you were lying and deceiving us. You bring many complications with you, mage.”

She bristles, resisting the urge to remind Eamon that his own _son_ is a mage. “My name is Solona, my lord.”

Something softens in his face, and she wonders if he _is,_ perhaps, thinking of his son. “Of course, Solona.” He looks from her to Alistair, taking them both in. Alistair’s expression is still hard, his posture protective of Solona. “Are you set on this course, your Majesty?”

“Yes,” Alistair replies firmly. “I am.”

Eamon nods, unsurprised. “Alistair, do not think me ignorant as to what you have sacrificed to be king – and to remain king. I would wish to see you find happiness.” He looks back at Solona. “And I have also not forgotten all that you’ve done for me – and Ferelden – in the past. But I am concerned. Do you plan to make her queen, Alistair? The Landsmeet will not accept that. You will lose your crown and risk a civil war.”

“That’s–”

Whatever Alistair is going to say, Solona cuts him off, half afraid he’s going to say that he’s willing to risk a civil war. “I want to make it clear,” she says firmly and both men turn to her, “that I don’t want to be queen. I don’t want to risk the peace we made ten years ago. And I’m not interested in titles, even if I were allowed to hold any.”

“That’s very fine, but when this” – Eamon gestures at the two of them – “becomes common knowledge, which won’t take long, that’s what the nobles will think you’re angling for. You’ve already caused quite a stir here, Lady Amell.”

“I’m aware of what risks I’m taking, uncle, and I’m willing to work through them.” Alistair is deadly serious, and Solona’s heart flutters like she’s nineteen years old again. “I’m a little more immediately concerned with how to tell people that the Hero of Ferelden is alive.”

“Yes, I have been considering that myself.” Eamon’s tone is thoughtful.

“Has my phylactery been destroyed?” The idea comes to Solona suddenly, so obvious she can’t believe she hasn’t thought of it before. “That could prove who I am.”

Alistair is thoughtful. “I don’t know. It truthfully never occurred to me, and it’s always been something the templars have been secretive about. I believe the phylacteries are held under guard at Fort Drakon.”

“I’ll make some enquiries,” Eamon says. “Hopefully they will cooperate with us.”

“Good,” Alistair replies, sounding satisfied. “In the meantime, Lady Amell,” he turns to her with a raised eyebrow and a light tone, garnering a weary sigh from Eamon. “I’d like to invite you to join us here as an official court mage.”

“Court mage?” She asks in surprise.

“Yes.” He grins at her. “We haven’t had one at court in years. You can advise the court and myself on mystical, magical matters. In practice, it’s not the most interesting role, to be honest. Our last mage grew weary of children asking him to spark flames from his fingers. As a healer you may fare better. But it’s…” Solona sees the flicker of uncertainty cross his face. “It’s something. For now, at least?”

She smiles, and they both turn their bodies subconsciously towards each other. “Yes. I’ll do it.” She’s already made the decision to stay, so this is an easy agreement. At least it will give her something to do. 

Alistair’s relief is palpable, and he pulls her into a hug.

“Before you start celebrating, please don’t forget that I’m still here.” Eamon’s tone is wry, and when Solona glances at him, she sees that he’s looking at Alistair fondly. But when his eyes slide to hers, his expression cools. “Lady Amell, we will speak soon about your new role, and about moving forward with the Cure for Alistair.” With a nod to them both, Eamon then departs, leaving them alone.

“You know, I think Eamon forgets that he broke some rules when he married for love,” Alistair murmurs, staring after him.

Solona doesn’t reply. Eamon married an Orlesian, not a mage. And Eamon isn’t king. She suspects grudging acceptance of something that he cannot change is the best they can hope for from him.

So instead of speaking, she tugs at Alistair’s collar and his attention immediately snaps back to her. Without hesitating she stretches up to kiss him, and he responds eagerly, his hands settling on her waist to steady her. Her decision made, Solona feels lighter than she has in years and wants to greedily take this moment before they have to leave the sanctuary of the garden and face the next challenge.

They stay there for a long time, exchanging kisses under the bright sun.


	4. Chapter 4

What follows an afternoon of sunny kisses and whispered promises is unwelcome reality.

It’s not all bad – or even mostly bad, Solona can admit to herself – but it’s also not exactly an easy time for her. Since she’d left Amaranthine a couple of years ago, her life has been spent mostly on the road and nearly always alone. Now she’s in the centre of Ferelden’s court, and she is of great interest to everyone.

It’s not every day that a hero returns from the dead, after all.

She and Alistair agree that they need to be quick about telling people about her. Rumours spread quickly, and they didn’t want something malicious to take root that would be difficult for them to dispel.

Her phylactery is retrieved from the depths of Fort Drakon with surprising ease and quickness. Solona remembers well the lectures she received about her phylactery back in the Circle – lectures to instil fear into young mages so they wouldn’t make try to run away. It was made clear that this would forever leash them to the Circle. Attempting to escape was pointless: with the phylactery, they could _always_ find you.

And they did. More than once, an escaped Circle mage was returned to the Tower, tracked down with their phylactery. Other times, the mages didn’t return, but were killed by the templars who found them.

Solona was lucky. Being made a Grey Warden had also given her freedom.

Still, regardless of her status, the vial of blood arrives in the company of three helmeted templars. They crowd the floor space of Alistair’s office; three sets of eyes encased in steel gazing upon her, and a frisson of trepidation travels up Solona’s spine. It’s an uneasy throwback to a former life.

But the process is quick. The phylactery is hers – it led them straight to this room. She is who she says she is.

It should help Solona’s uneasiness, but it doesn’t, not yet. She’s seated in the same seat as before, while Alistair is in conversation with Eamon and the templars. The words blur over her, unimportant.

She can’t stop staring at the small vial sitting on the desk in front of her. She remembers vividly when they took that blood from her, on the day she arrived in the Tower – it had hurt, and she had cried, a scared girl of eight years old, suddenly ripped away from her family and everything she had known.

How many phylacteries of dead mages did they keep in Fort Drakon?

Carefully, she picks it up. It is no longer glowing, as it had been when the templars entered the room –although it appears to brighten slightly when she touches it. The vial is warm, like the blood had just been taken from her moments ago, and not over twenty years previously.

Resisting the urge to smash it to the ground and break it into a thousand pieces, Solona places it back on the desk, swallowing down the feeling of revulsion touching the phylactery had given her.

When the templars depart, they leave her phylactery behind. The room becomes quiet, with Eamon also taking his leave, and she finds easier to breathe.

“Are you alright?” Alistair’s voice is soft. He pulls up a chair to sit beside her.

She realises she’s been blankly staring at the phylactery for a long time, and pulls herself out of her thoughts. “Are they leaving it here?”

“Yes, although they weren’t all that happy about it,” Alistair replies, taking her hand in his. “But there’s not exactly anything they can do, is there? There’s no Circle to bring you to, and it’s not like you ran away in the first place. I don’t really think they want to argue with the king over it, especially not when all we just did was confirm that you are… you.” He squeezes her hand. “They have far bigger issues to be dealing with right now.”

_That’s right_ , Solona thinks. The Templar Order is completely fractured in the wake of the war and Corypheus. There aren’t many templars even left in Denerim – and most of them are older, getting close to their retirement age. They do the duties they’ve always done, because they don’t know what else to do.

Still, she is mildly surprised they didn’t put up more of an argument. Perhaps the world truly is changing.

She looks at her phylactery again. “I want to destroy it, but I suppose I probably shouldn’t,” she mutters.

Alistair makes a noise of agreement. “I can understand why you feel that way, but it is proof of who you are – confirmed by the templars. I think it best to keep it, at least for now.”

Dragging her gaze away from the vial to look at Alistair, she’s surprised to find him sitting so close to her. “Do you have somewhere safe I can put it?”

“My dear, I have a _vault_.” He gives her that boyish grin.

She blinks. “Of course you do.”

Alistair watches as her gaze turns back to the phylactery. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He asks again, clearly worried.

“Yes, it’s…” Solona trails off, unwilling to admit to a fear that had taken root in her when Alistair told her that her phylactery was indeed at Fort Drakon and that the templars were coming with it.

She’d been worried that it wouldn’t be _hers_. That it belonged to the other Solona Amell – the one who died ten years ago, who’s soul was destroyed when she killed the Archdemon. That perhaps they were different women and she wasn’t really her, not exactly. That there would be _something_ setting them apart and the phylactery would prove it.

She’d feared that it would be enough for Alistair to be suspicious of her and for them to do Maker knows what with her, now that it was proven who she most certainly _wasn’t_.

But it had been a baseless fear. The templars were satisfied by what they found. This is her phylactery, full of her blood. She is no demon, no abomination. She is just Solona Amell.

It makes her uneasy that she knows so little about the magic that brought her here. Had the Venatori known exactly what it would do? Why had it sent her _here_ , to a world in which everything seemed to be the exact same, up until that one moment, one decision, all those years ago?

It bothers Solona that she doesn’t know, and that she’ll likely never know.

She starts a little when Alistair wraps his arms around her, and then remembers that she never answered him. It’s difficult to articulate the many complicated feelings she has about her phylactery. She’s always known it existed, of course, but she was lucky that she had her freedom. Mostly she tried not to think about it. To be confronted with it makes her uncomfortable.

But Alistair seems to understand or at least, gets that it’s difficult for her, and she turns into him before getting annoyed the chair in the way, and so promptly moves to sit in his lap. Alistair smiles at her, holding her close.

“Thank you,” she says, trailing her hand over his jaw, “for getting it.” Leaning in, she kisses him gently. When she pulls away, she can still see some worry in his face. “I’m alright, Alistair, it’s just…” she pauses, considering, “it’s very heavy for such a small thing.” 

He nods. “I understand. I’ll have it put away where it’s safe – we may need it in case people question who you are. I think we should make the announcement.”

Solona takes a deep breath, knowing he’s right, but hating the idea of it. She’ll be under a lot of scrutiny.

Alistair runs soothing hands up and down her back. “I’ll be with you,” he whispers, his eyes and tone fierce despite the quietness of his words. “You aren’t doing this alone.”

She swallows heavily, clutching tightly to him as he seals his words with a kiss.

\---

The news that Solona Amell, Hero of Ferelden, slayer of the Archdemon, is in fact _not_ dead… does not cause as much of an uproar as they had expected. Stranger things have happened, as they say. People are still preoccupied with the Breach, or what happened at Redcliffe.

There are questions of course, and plenty of suspicion, but there’s also acceptance of the vague story of Warden business requiring secrecy and that rumours of her death were greatly exaggerated.

It fell absolutely in line with what most people here think of the Wardens – and Solona discovers another difference between this Ferelden and the one where she had come from. While she had been Arlessa of Amaranthine, she’d worked hard to foster a good relationship with the people. Her Wardens had followed her example.

But here? An Orlesian senior Warden was sent by Weisshaupt to take on the role of Commander of the Grey and to begin rebuilding the Wardens in Ferelden. He too had been granted Vigil’s Keep and the Arling of Amaranthine by the monarch as acknowledgement for the Wardens role in stopping the Blight. But he had not endeared himself to anyone.

Solona isn’t surprised. If he was Orlesian, he was already facing an uphill battle when it came to Ferelden attitudes. And if he was a typical senior Warden – inflexible, narrow minded, secretive, completely unwilling to involve themselves in the world – then _of course_ no one had liked him.

Alistair tells her, his face dark, that when the darkspawn swarmed Amaranthine, not long after the end of the Blight, the Warden Commander had abandoned the city in favour of defending Vigil’s Keep. Amaranthine had burned to the ground. Countless died, and it had taken years to rebuild.

The Warden Commander, and by extension the entire Order, had been blamed.

It’s a sickening blow to Solona. She had taken her companions and defended Amaranthine, driving out the darkspawn. Vigil’s Keep had endured without her, thanks to the work made on the old fortress and the efforts of the people within. There had still been loss and destruction that grieved her, but she knew she had made the right decisions, and done the most she possibly could. In the aftermath, trust had formed between her Wardens and the people of Amaranthine. The city and the keep had pulled through, and when she’d left them on her journey to find a Cure, they’d been thriving.

To know it had been so different here is difficult for her to accept. There must be so many she had known in Amaranthine that are no longer living. At least not here.

It grieves her deeply.

It’s lucky for the Orlesian Warden Commander that he disappeared with the rest of the Wardens, otherwise Solona would already be on a horse heading north to deal with him herself.

\---

So the news that Solona Amell has been gone so long due to Grey Warden business – full of secrets as they are – is plausible to many. Those who remember her funeral are less convinced, but it’s hard to deny the evidence of the woman before them, especially not against the news of her phylactery.

It’s a double edged blade. Solona’s status as a Grey Warden may explain her disappearance, but it doesn’t endear people to her. Just as Alistair made efforts to remove himself from his past with the Order when he was made king, so now Solona must do the same. They make it clear she’s no longer a Warden. She is a mage, yes, but a _safe_ mage (Solona bristles at this but knows why it must be done) – Circle trained, brought up here in Ferelden. Not a rebel, just a woman trying to make a life like anyone else. And, let’s not forget, she’s also the one who killed the Archdemon.

That last detail is difficult for her to swallow. The title of _Hero of Ferelden_ has always been unbearable to her. Alistair was the one who deserved to be called it – he had made the sacrifice, he was the hero, not her.

So she at least has had some time to learn how to grit her teeth and endure being called it.

Still, the ready acceptance of so many takes Solona by surprise. Then again, everyone remembers the Blight, and just how bad it was before it was stopped. Any number of people come up to her to thank her, and tell her they’re glad she’s still with them and that they have a chance to pay their respects to her. Truthfully, it makes Solona feel guilty in a vague kind of way, but mostly she’s relieved no one is throwing rotten fruit at her or calling her a demon.

She wonders if the threat of Corypheus and the Breach has actually helped her in a way – there are so many displaced people due to the war, and no small amount of them are mages. Everyone has heard rumours of what happened at Adamant, and what the Wardens did. They can understand someone trying to escape that. People are scared, but they’re also banding together in a way they haven’t since the threat of the Blight.

It also helps that she’s good at healing and making poultices and potions – skills honed through necessity rather than any particular interest or aptitude on Solona’s part. But it’s something she’s very good at, and it’s also something people are always grateful for – everyone likes someone who can help their ills and aches.

Her guard is lifted completely, and Solona has her freedom. Alistair makes it clear she’s able to come and go as she pleases, and she can tell he wants her to start thinking of this palace as her home. She’s moved to finer quarters and a wardrobe and other necessities are arranged for her. Alistair is set on making sure she is comfortable, and she finds she doesn’t quite know how to deal with someone trying to take care of her.

It’s a foreign feeling.

\---

Of course, it’s not all smooth, and at least some of the acceptance of her isn’t genuine.

Tongues are wagging, and not just because of her heroic past, supposed death, and mysterious return; but also because the king is so clearly besotted with her – despite their attempts to be discreet. Solona doesn’t want to give anyone any extra reason to be suspicious of her, and being seen to be seducing the king is exactly that. The gossip is wearying. For many, this explains why the king has not looked at a woman the entire time he’s been on the throne. He’s been waiting for his lost love. 

For the romantics, it is a fairytale to sigh over.

For others, especially those seeking to further their own power, this is a potential threat. The king suddenly becoming infatuated with a mage, no matter who she says she is, is cause for some alarm. Especially when it’s a mage claiming to be a long dead hero.

It’s suspicious, and the whispers of blood magic are inevitable.

Both Solona and Alistair – and all his high ranking advisors – are watched closely. Those that fear Solona is a maleficar intent on harm are left baffled when Alistair remains completely unchanged, beyond the fact that he smiles more. There is no sudden policy changes, no raising of Solona’s status, no preference being given to mages in general. He’s not shirking his duties. She’s not attending important meetings or having any say in the running of the kingdom. If this is a power play from a blood mage, it’s a subtle one.

An angle is sought and none can be found.

Those who visit her for healing are pressed for gossip once they leave. She’s pleasant, they say. Polite. At worst, she’s a little reserved. But when she sees the king and smiles, and Alistair smiles back at her and it’s like his adoring gaze is a warm sun on a snowfield, melting her ice.

Some are loving the romance of it all, or are at least pleased to see a good man such as Alistair find some happiness. There are plenty who simply accept it all at face value and make a genuine attempt to get to know the new court mage. Solona, despite her wariness, makes her own attempts to form connections outside of Alistair.

But many others watch, hawk-eyed for the slightest hint of blood magic or corruption, or for Solona to start seeking power once she’s ingratiated herself with the court.

\---

But just as they’re watching Solona, she’s watching them right back.

She has to deal with the reality of Alistair’s reign. As a king, he’s very hands on, interested and involved in all the workings of his kingdom. Even now, ten years into a well established rule, he’s forever striving to be better. He’s always learning, and knows when to ask for help and when he can stand on his own power. Solona realises quickly that he’s quite beloved by the common people and many of the lesser nobles, and those who serve him are incredibly loyal.

Among the higher ranks of the nobility that flit about the court like colourful birds in their finery, it’s harder to judge – but that isn’t surprising. They make all the right noises, but she remembers what she knows of some of them, and how they planned to use Anora’s succession crisis for their own gain. She’d been in a strange position back then – a Grey Warden and a mage, an Arlessa only by technicality. Solona was respected, but she wasn’t one of them. However, she wasn’t someone they could just simply ignore, as much as they might like to.

That knowledge she gained from that time helps her now. She knows who is trustworthy and who to be wary of. She remembers how to smile blandly and make polite overtures and talk without saying anything important at all. She is relieved that Ferelden’s politics, despite everything, is at least a little more straightforward than Orlais. They don’t play the Great Game here, although that doesn’t mean you won’t end up with a knife in your back if you aren’t careful.

She is very careful to never let on how much she knows about all of them.

What relieves Solona is that Alistair has a lot of support from various corners, and is very popular. His throne is secure.

Whether it’s secure enough to survive his relationship with her remains to be seen.

\---

As for Alistair himself, he’s often busy, but manages to make time for Solona almost every day. He’s all too aware she doesn’t have anything but him to anchor herself in this place, and tries to support her as best he can.

On days when he can’t see her, or when he’s away from the palace, he arranges to have flowers sent to her. They’re the only frivolous gifts he sends – everything else is at least practical, like he knows she likes: a space in the garden to plant herbs, or ink and quills, or books, or even the exquisite, expensive parchment she loves but would never buy for herself.

He’s _courting_ her, and it’s both the most sweetest and frustrating experience of her life. She doesn’t need to be courted. His kisses are deep and passionate, but it goes no further. She isn’t quite sure what he’s waiting for – there’s nothing stopping them from spending the nights together.

Solona doesn’t want to be ungrateful: every second with him is cherished. She just wants _more_.

But she’s scared to ask for it, afraid that the trust she is building in him again could be shattered too easily due to the continuing raw emotions from both of them. They have ten years worth of difficult feelings to navigate, and they have to get to know each other again, because neither of them have remained unchanged.

So she knows it’s perhaps a little unfair of her to be frustrated that Alistair is taking their renewed relationship slowly, especially considering the position he’s in. She schools herself to be patient.

Solona marks the changes in him, not just physically, but otherwise. As a person, he’s grown far more than she has. Like she’d always known he would, he stepped up to become a great king and a wonderful man. He bears the heavy weight of it well and is, even now, still so compassionate. He cares, so much, and he always wants to do better. Solona has no doubt of his love for her, and that he grieved for her just as much as she did for him, but he never let it make him bitter or distant – again, unlike herself. She can see how the depth of emotion he has still makes him so sensitive to the feelings of others.

She had just turned inwards. Even as Warden Commander she’d held herself separate and aloof even while helping others. She kept the emotions of others at a distance, just like she’d tried to keep her own. Hyper focusing on her duties to the exclusion of anything else had been her way of coping. It was why the Cure had become almost an obsession for her, even if she had no particular desire to lengthen her own life. Abstractly, she knew it would help other Wardens, but she’d pursued it so doggedly because it stopped her from thinking about anything else.

But with Alistair, she begins to feel lighter and more like her old self, and when he’s with her, Alistair is able to shed the mantle of king and relax. His affection is freely given, constant touches and kisses, and his presence is as warm and intoxicating as it ever was. She didn’t think it possible, but she finds herself falling more and more in love with him, and no matter what challenges they might face, she feels like she can take on anything with him beside her. They spend as much time together as his schedule will allow, and most nights they usually end up sitting in the large high backed armchair in front of the fire in his bedroom, Solona curled around him, talking into the early hours, relearning everything about each other.

The sleep deprivation is worth it, even if it gets harder and hard to go back to her own bed every time. From the way he holds her and kisses her with desperation, she suspects it’s the same for Alistair too, but he still keeps saying it’s “for the best” that she sleep in her own beed.

Solona keeps her resolve to be patient, and she is, mostly, because she’s content for the first time in so long. She’s actually _happy_ , despite the political nonsense they have to manoeuvre and the lingering suspicion around her reappearance. The future won’t be plain sailing for them, she’s sure – but when is it ever? They’ll be together, and that’s what counts.

She suspects, with satisfaction, that a happy outcome hadn’t been something the Venatori mage had planned on when he cast his spell on her.

\---

The weeks slip by fast as Solona settles into her new life. The court is in a state of excitement because the Inquisition is due to arrive any day now. And this time it’s not just any regular agents – no, the Inquisitor herself, the Herald of Andraste, is coming to Denerim.

The palace and city are even more busy than usual, what with essentially every Ferelden noble and their retinues coming to Denerim for the occasion. No one wants to miss an opportunity to see the famous Inquisitor, the woman leading the most powerful organisation in Thedas. It’s as bustling as a Landsmeet, and Solona is all too aware of the extra eyes on her – rumours have already spread outside of Denerim about her. For some, taking the time to see the woman it’s said that the king is in love with is just as important as seeing the Inquisitor.

Among the newly arrived nobles is Anora. Solona gets a prickling feeling up her spine whenever she sees her because all she can think about is the _other_ Anora, the woman who had been – or who still is, possibly, somewhere else – queen. They haven’t spoken – they have no need to, she hopes – and Solona wonders if Anora is happier here. She isn’t married, but she is Teyrna of Gwaren, the title she inherited from her father. She is matched in status only with Fergus Cousland, Teyrn of Highever, and only outranked by the king himself. She is no longer queen, but she is still important.

The throne room is thronged when the Inquisition arrive. Solona lurks off to the side in the midst of the gathered crowd, listening and watching as Alistair greets Inquisitor Lavellan and her companions – all of whom she’s met, but who don’t know her.

It’s also an opportunity for her to watch Alistair being… well, being a _king_. It’s not something she sees much of – it’s not like they’re inviting her to council meetings. And while Alistair does discuss his duties with her,and heeds her advice, he doesn’t want to be the _king_ around her. He just wants to be Alistair.

But it’s still enticing to watch him like this. He’s effortlessly charming, of course, but he’s also assertive. The Inquisitor is more than welcome in Denerim, but this is his domain, after all. He’s confident and regal, and comfortable in his role. He’s wearing his crown, and he’s lavishly dressed; the very picture of a king.

It’s no less than she expected of him. If she’d ever had any doubt of Alistair’s ability to do this, she would never have made him king.

Solona can’t take her eyes off him, dragging her gaze up from his shoes, over his well tailored clothes, to the top of his head. Desire pools in her, and she attempts to shake off the impure thoughts.

_It’s hardly the time, Solona_ , she chides herself.

Like he knows she’s thinking bout him, Alistair’s eyes scan the assembled court until they find hers. His mouth quirks upwards and his eyes warm as he pauses to gaze at her for a moment. Solona returns the smile, tilting her head towards him.

A brief moment, but enough to buoy her.

It ends too soon, but Alistair has to return his attention to his guests. Solona does the same, taking in just who is accompanying the Inquisitor. There’s Dorian, of course – they’d requested his specific input into this Tevinter amulet, so she’d been expecting to see him. She knows he’s clever and insightful. There’s also the elf mage Solas, but he’s not someone Solona has had much to do with beyond introductions. Most of what she knows of Solas is rumour – it is alleged that he’s the Inquisitor’s lover, after all. With them is Cassandra, the Seeker, and… _Leliana_?

Solona blinks. Leliana is hooded and not broadcasting her identity, but Solona would recognise her anywhere. Alistair clearly does too, his eyes twinkling as he realises who it is.

Solona had not expected the Inquisition’s Spymaster to leave Skyhold. But, she supposes, Leliana would no doubt be suspicious to hear a dead woman she’d once been close friends with has returned. Of course she’d want to see this for herself.

Knowing that the formal pleasantries would soon be winding down, Solona carefully navigates her way through the crowd to a door leading to the private audience chambers, ignoring the glances she gets. She passes through with no trouble. The guards are by now familiar with the Lady Amell and her intimate acquaintance with the king.

Once inside, Solona feels some of the tension leave her shoulders. She’s relieved to be away from the crowd. There’s still a handful of guards and servers here, and she gratefully accepts a glass of wine that’s offered to her. Taking a seat, Solona sips her drink and tries to calm herself. She’s not sure what to expect from Leliana.

She doesn’t have long to wait, as Alistair soon arrives with his guests. He isn’t fond of a lot of the formal pomp and ceremony that is inevitable with his position, so he doesn’t drag it out. Solona stands, pleasant butterflies dancing in her stomach as Alistair sees her and shoots her a warm smile.

“Here she is,” he exclaims cheerfully. Eamon is just behind him, and he looks displeased – but that is not particularly unusual.

She returns his smile, but her gaze soon drifts beyond him, to the Inquisitor and her companions. They’re all regarding her with intense interest.

Leliana gasps, rushing forward. “Solona, it _is_ you.”

“Leli–” Solona’s reply is knocked out of her as Leliana all but tackles her in a hug and she can’t help but laugh as she returns the embrace. “It’s good to see you.”

Leliana pulls back to inspect Solona’s face. “I could hardly believe Alistair’s letter when we received it. I just had to come and see for myself.” She pauses and places both of her hands on Solona’s face. “It is like a miracle.”

Solona’s face heats up under the scrutiny. “Well, I think it’s more like Tevinter magic…”

“Hmm.” Their reunion is interrupted by Solas, the Inquisitor by his side. He steps up beside Leliana, inspecting Solona with a calculating look on his face. “Would you mind if I did a small test of my own?”

Solona nods her acquiesce and Leliana steps back. The ripple of Solas’ magic pushes against her gently as he casts a spell. She’s not sure what it is, exactly, but it’s benign. “Well, she’s certainly not a demon or a spirit,” Solas announces, but his face doesn’t lose it’s calculating look.

Solona replies balefully, “People keep saying that to me, I’m beginning to get a complex.”

Solas smirks. “I can imagine.”

The Inquisitor is unsmiling. “Having seen just what the Venatori are capable of, I understand why people are wary,” she says gravely.

Solona resists the urge to shrug at her – she can entirely understand why people are wary, but she hopes she doesn’t have to remain under a cloud of suspicion for the rest of her life. “Understandable, although I hope my phylactery will be enough to satisfy people.”

A vaguely disgusted look crosses Lavellan’s face before she schools her expression. “I’d forgotten that was a practice in your Circles. At least it has proved beneficial in this case.” She too is a mage, although Solona isn’t going to pretend she knows much about Dalish mages and their customs.

She’s not at all offended by the flicker of disgust that crossed the Inquisitor’s face – Solona entirely understands her feelings.

Solas interjects. “Will you tell me more about what happened to you? It was not the Fade you were pulled through, but something else?”

His eyes are bright with interest and Solona represses a sigh. But it is what they’re here for, after all – although to her, the matter of curing Alistair is more important. She turns to the others. “Of course, although I’d only like to tell it once, so anyone interested should listen.”

By now, both the Seeker and Dorian have joined them, both looking curiously at Solona. Dorian steps forward with a flourish.

“I’d introduce myself, but I hear we’ve already met.”

Solona can’t help but smile at him. She doesn’t know him well, but his company is pleasant and he’d proved to be insightful and resourceful. Working with a Tevinter mage had made her realise how caged in her thinking about magic was, even if she’d been out of the Circle for so long. She’d never have cured the taint without his drastically different way of looking at things.

“Yes,” she replies. “I owe you a great deal of gratitude – it’s because of your help, and Leliana’s – “ she glances over to her friend, who is still beaming at her “– that I was able to find a cure to the Calling.”

Dorian looks pleased. “How very fascinating, although I’d expect no less of myself, and of our esteemed Spymaster. I’m delighted to hear that no matter where I am, I am extremely capable.” Beside him, Cassandra makes a small, irritated sound that Dorian completely ignores. “I would appreciate it if you would discuss that with me sometime.”

She’s happy to agree to that, and then turns to Cassandra, who’s expression Solona can’t quite decipher. So she just tilts her head in greeting. “Seeker Pentaghast.”

“Warden Amell. The Hero of Ferelden.” Cassandra states, gravely.

Dorian arches an eyebrow. “I’d tell you that our dear Seeker isn’t usually so terrible in social situations,” he says easily to her, “but that would be a lie.”

Solona isn’t sure how to reply. Cassandra was someone else she’d met while she’d been in Skyhold, but she’d been angry at Solona. It turned out she and Leliana had some notion that she should be the one to lead the Inquisition to stop the escalating violence between templars and mages. Of course, they’d been unable to find Solona, who was far out of reach at the time, and then the explosion at the Conclave changed a lot of things. Solona was never sure if Cassandra’s anger was due to her thinking Solona could have somehow stopped the death of the Divine, or if her anger went inwards, towards what she probably considered her own failings.

Here, of course, there had been no Hero of Ferelden to search for. Cassandra had no reason to be angry with her, although Solona is a little surprised that a member of the Seekers of Truth seems to so readily accept her.

So all she says is, “Just Solona is fine, Seeker.”

Cassandra nods, and she ignores Dorians little jab, too focused on Solona. “For obvious reasons, I never expected to be meeting you. I can’t help but wonder how things would be different if you’d been here for the last ten years, if things would be better.”

_The world would still have gone to hell, Seeker, I’m not that important._

Solona doesn’t voice her thoughts. Cassandra sounds so very earnest, and it makes her feel a bit weary.

She doesn’t feel like a hero.

Thankfully, Dorian intervenes, getting the conversation back to business, a hint of impatience in his voice. “And the magic that sent you here – you mentioned an amulet?” He looks from Solona to Alistair.

Alistair nods. “Yes, we have it. I think first, though, Solona should explain what happened to her – it would probably be helpful you hear it from her.” He’s drifted towards her, and she can’t help but smile at him, even now still struck silly by how he looks at her and the way he says her name.

“Let’s all sit,” says Eamon, making a signal to a server. “Dinner is just about to be served.”

They do so, and Solona once again describes what happened to her, almost an exact repeat of her conversation with Alistair and Eamon. Occasional questions from the Inquisition members pepper the conversation, but mostly it’s Solona speaking. She picks at her food when she can, and is relieved when she’s done with her tale so she can fill on her stomach on her now cold dinner. The others pick up the conversation, throwing about theories and discussing how it happened.

The whole time, Leliana is watching her from across the table with shining eyes. Solona gives her a smile.

“I’m sorry to stare, Solona.” Leliana looks apologetic. “It is just that, even knowing you’ve arrived here because of Venatori magic… it is still incredible to see you again. I have missed you. It is so _good_ to see you again.”

Solona’s smile suddenly feels forced, as she thinks about the Leliana back from where she’d come from – the Leliana who she’d grown apart from. Solona had only sought her out in Skyhold for her assistance, and her stomach twists as the realisation that she’d likely very much hurt her friend.

For someone who tries to do the right thing, Solona recognises that she’s made some huge mistakes.

“Leliana,” she starts carefully. “How can you be so certain I’m telling the truth?”

A slight hush falls across the table. Clearly the rest of her companions had also wondered at Leliana’s quick acceptance of Solona.

But Leliana just gives a light laugh. “Oh, believe me, I had my doubts when we got Alistair’s letter. But as soon as I saw the way you and Alistair looked at each other, it was like I’d been transported back in time ten years.” She sounds wistful, and the eyes of everyone slide between the king at the head of the table and the former Warden Commander further down, who both look a little embarrassed. Leliana reaches over and pats her hand, and Solona has to swallow down the emotion welling up inside her as she smiles back at Leliana. “I know if Alistair trusts you, he who knows you best, then it is you. Your phylactery is just extra confirmation of what I already know to be true – it is you, as crazy as that sounds.”

“It’s that simple for you, Sister Nightingale?” Eamon’s question is pointedly bland, but Solona isn’t fooled. He’s still unhappy about her presence and the complications she poses, although he’s taken her research into curing the taint seriously.

“Of course, my lord,” Leliana replies lightly. “If it would make you feel better, I could ask Solona questions that only she would know the answers to.”

Eamon’s reply is stiff. “That won’t be necessary.”

Leliana smiles sweetly at him, though Solona doesn’t miss the steel underneath it. “That is wonderful to hear, but please be assured of my complete faith in Solona and what she says.”

The words are spoken lightly, and they’re not a threat. What they are is an admission of support – even if not from the Inquisition itself, but from its Spymaster. More importantly, from her friend, a friend who has never lost faith in her. A warmth spreads through Solona as she watches Leliana, something easing inside her knowing she has more than one person here who cares for her.

“Anyway, Solona, you must tell me more – I’m intrigued by the differences between this place and the one you left.” Leliana deftly switches the conversation, and this topic has everyone’s interest – even Eamon’s.

Solona, uncomfortable with all the attention again being on her, suppresses a sigh and starts talking. The two places are the same, as far as she can tell, with the only differences all stemming from one event: who sacrificed themselves to kill the archdemon. No, she can’t explain it and no, she doesn’t have any theories as to why or how the Venatori mage’s amulet sent her here. Yes, Corypheus’ rise to the power was the same as here.

And so on it goes. She answers what questions she can.

What Solona doesn’t say is that she is exhausted by this topic, even though she can fully understand everyone’s fascination with it. She and Alistair have discussed all this at length, and she’s been in for several more interviews with Eamon. The only one who can answer the question of how she got here is dead, although they have discussed the possibility of attempting to capture a Venatori agent alive for questioning – easier said than done. Dorian, Solas – any of them can put forth theories but she doubts they can fully explain it.

What they can do is help cure Alistair. Her eyes rake over the group. Not a combination she’d have chosen to take down a high dragon, but she knows they’re all more than capable. If she can prove that curing herself wasn’t a fluke, she can send it to the Wardens at Weisshaupt and they can do with it what they like.

And she’s confident they can cure Alistair, and she cares more about that right now – she’s all too aware that the taint that runs through his blood is slowly killing him and no one knows how much time he might have left. It makes her fret, even though he’s no longer hearing the false Calling. His time isn’t _now_ , but it could easily be _soon_.

The Inquisitor’s group are discussing what Solona has told them, leaving the Fereldens more quiet – they’ve had time to digest this, after all. Solona’s eyes keep meeting Alistair’s. She hates that he’s so far away – even if it’s just the other side of a table – and she’s itching to be alone with him. She hasn’t seen him properly in a couple of days. They’ve both been kept busy. He’s looking at at her just as much as she’s looking at him, and he’s looking at her in a way that makes her squirm in her seat, clenching at the thought of what that look promised.

“Solona.” It takes her a minute to realise Leliana is speaking to her again, and she turns her attention away from Alistair with some difficulty. Leliana’s eyebrows are raised. “It’s nice to see some things haven’t changed,” she said quietly in a playful tone. She shoots a look at Alistair, who appears a bit bashful at her gaze. Turning back to Solona, she continues, “We should have brought Morrigan along for a full renunion. She is at Skyhold, you know.”

At the mention of Morrigan, Solona struggles to keep the smile on her face. Leliana notices, of course. “I know,” she replies shortly. “I met her. At Skyhold.” She means the _other_ Skyhold, but Leliana understands. “It didn’t go well.”

“Ah.” Leliana looks unsurprised and doesn’t press for details. “We did not tell her you were here – we thought it best to keep the news close until we could confirm it. I did not think it any of her business, anyway.”

Solona nods, trying to relax her now tense body. “Thank you. It isn’t. We don’t have anything to say to each other.”

“She may disagree with you on that,” Leliana is thoughtful.

“I don’t want to hear anything she has to say,” Solona hisses, but keeps her voice low, hoping no one else is paying attention to their conversation. Thankfully they all seemed to be engrossed in their own conversations. “Not after what she said about–” She shuts off, her eyes drifting back to Alistair. The mere thought of her conversation with Morrigan in Skyhold makes her furious.

Once again, Leliana immediately understands. She takes Solona’s hand and squeezes. “Morrigan can be cruel,” she says softly.

They fall silent as their plates are removed and dessert is served.

“Morrigan…” Solona begins with difficulty. “Morrigan is not the only one who can be cruel.” She raises her eyes from her plate to Leliana. “I owe you an apology.”

“Whatever for?” Leliana is perplexed.

“I have not been a good friend to you, these last ten years.” The admission is difficult and perhaps it’s silly of her to want to say it – after all, this Leliana isn’t the one Solona ignored until she needed her help, so she doesn’t need to apologise. But it weighs on Solona. She keeps her voice quiet, for Leliana’s ears only. “I threw myself into the role of Warden Commander, but I lost myself, after Alistair… after he died.” Even now, it’s still so hard to say, and she swallows heavily. “I lost touch with you, with everyone, because I didn’t care.”

“Oh, Solona…” Leliana looks sad.

“When I went to Skyhold it was for your assistance, for what you could do for me, rather than to see an old friend and when you greeted me with so much reserve, I realised what I’d done.” Now Solona is struggling to keep her voice under control, grief and regret snaking through her as she thought of the marked difference between how this Leliana had greeted her, and the reception she’d received at Skyhold. “You still helped, of course, and I can never thank you enough for that. You are a dear friend, and I’m sorry for how I treated you.”

“Thank you for telling me this,” Leliana’s voice is pitched just as quiet as Solona’s, but she’s talking with fierce emotion. “I accept your apology. Just…” She leans back with a challenging smile. “Don’t do it again.”

Solona returns the smile, relieved. “I promise.”

“Good.” Leliana watches as Solona takes a bite of her dessert. “Now, we should get on with the business of curing Alistair so you two can get to making babies, no?”

The unexpected turn of the conversation makes Solona laugh, and she chokes on her dessert, dissolving into a coughing fit. Leliana hides a smile as she passes her a napkin, and the rest of the table falls silent, looking at her in concern.

Solona gets herself under control. Alistair is half up out of his chair, ready to help, but she waves him to retake his seat.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

She takes a sip from her water glass, shooting a glare at Leliana. “I’m fine, Leliana is just…” She halts. The words she’s going to say are _Leliana is just trying to kill me_. A joke, a light turn of phrase they’ve all used countless times. But she feels it’s inappropriate, here. “Leliana is just getting revenge, I think,” she finishes haltingly.

Leliana raises an eyebrow. “I’m offended you would think so, Solona!” She smirks and relents. “But perhaps. I did not mean for you to choke on this delicious food. I’d merely hoped my scandalous words would make you blush.”

“Scandalous? Do share with the rest of us,” Dorian says eagerly.

“I’d rather she didn’t,” Alistair’s tone is wry. It may have been ten years since he’d been around both these woman together, but he knew what they were like, and he could take an educated guess at the general topic that had caused Solona to choke. 

“Yes,” Eamon is disapproving. “We have more important matters to discuss, such as the Inquisition’s assistance in curing Alistair of the taint.”

The Inquisitor inclines her head at him. “We’d be happy to help, your Majesty.” She is a grave woman, Solona thinks. So very controlled. She wonders if this is just how the woman is, or if it’s a result of the heavy title and responsibility she bears.

“Thank you,” replies Alistair. “Hopefully once Solona reveals what it involves, you won’t regret that offer.”

“Oh?” Lavellan turns to Solona, curious.

“There’s a complicated spell that requires at least two mages. Lots of rare herbs. Lyrium, of course. Alistair’s blood.” She meets his eyes, a grim expression on her face. “And the blood of a high dragon.” The mention of a dragon makes Lavellan nod, understanding now why they require the Inquisition’s assistance.

“So it is blood magic.” Cassandra is disapproving.

Solona shrugs. “As much as the Joining is. As much as phylacteries are.” She doesn’t want to say out loud _so what’s your point_ , but it is implied. The Seeker remains unimpressed.

“Lady Amell assures us she is not a blood mage,” Eamon states and Solona feels a splurge of irritation. If Eamon thought she had the slightest whiff of blood magic around her, she’d already be locked up by the templars, regardless of any objections Alistair might have. He knows very well she isn’t a blood mage. “We have no reason to disbelieve her. But the Cure is… unorthodox. And comes with great risk, as I understand it.”

“I can’t view it as any safer as the Joining.” The thought makes her wince, knowing what a risk it is for Alistair to take. “I was unconscious for hours afterwards, and when I woke I was very weak for some time. I have no doubt it could be fatal – there are so many factors to consider.” She turns to Cassandra. “I understand your reservations, but the Joining itself involves darkspawn blood. Our own blood is tainted. Of course the process of purifying it will also involve blood and the only blood powerful enough is that of a dragon, and it also still needs to be treated.” 

“She is also a mage who survived the process,” Solas is thoughtful. “She was not possessed. A non mage might well fair better.”

“Regardless, I can’t dismiss the risk of it.” She’ll do whatever she can to minimise the danger to Alistair, but she knows she can’t erase it completely.

The discussion continues, although the hour is growing late and the Inquisitor’s party is weary from travel. They retire to bed, with plans in the morning to inspect the Tevinter amulet and further discuss the Cure, using Solona’s notes. Alistair has already been collecting the herbs they’ll need – Solona knows where to get them and while her contacts are obviously of no use to her here, getting things you want is easy enough for royalty.

They all say their goodnights, departing for their quarters. Solona is also about to leave when Alistair catches her eye, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows at her. Guessing he wants her to stay, she lingers, letting the others file out and ignoring the looks they’re giving her.

Once they’ve left, Alistair smiles and wordlessly takes her arm and leads her into his private rooms. There’s a servant stoking the fire who quickly bows and leaves and then they are finally completely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while.
> 
> Apologies for the long gap between updates. I got extremely stuck with this fic, but good news: I have finished writing it, although later chapters are still being edited. Updates should be pretty quick, I hope – I'd like to get this completed sooner rather than later.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <3


	5. Chapter 5

Alistair is watching her from across the room, which is cast in a warm glow from the fire and the braziers. She fidgets a little under his appreciative gaze, trying to resist the urge to drag him over to the large four poster bed across the room. Instead she just swallows heavily, and tries to speak.

“That was–”

Solona gets no further before she’s backed against the door that they’ve just come through by Alistair, his hands cupping her face and his lips capturing hers. Clearly his thoughts were running along similar lines as hers. The hard lines of his body press against her, and she melts, opening her mouth to him eagerly as her hands slide up his arms to find purchase on his shoulders. She can’t get enough of him, and while the last few weeks of passionate kisses and courting have been wonderful, she’s so extremely wound up that she already feels fit to burst.

One of Alistair’s hands slide down her cheek and throat and around her neck to gather her hair away from her face. He pulls back slightly, only slightly, his chest heaving against hers as they catch their breath. His eyes are dark, reflecting the need she’s sure is on her face, and she puts up no resistance as he carefully tilts her head back and descends to kiss her neck in that spot that makes her knees buckle.

“Alistair.” His name comes out as a whine, but she’s getting restless now, seeking and failing to get any kind of friction that she needs. And Maker, does she need him. The feel of his body flushed tight with hers feels so good, but it’s just not enough. She can feel his hardness against her stomach and she knows that this couldn’t possibly be enough for him either.

“Hmmmmmm?” The vibrations of his reply against her throat make her groan, and she can tell he’s grinning.

Until now, Solona would never have thought she’d considered begging anyone for anything, but she’s getting close. Her voice is reedy with want. “ _Please_ , touch me.”

Alistair raises his head, his face just inches from hers, concern written across his face. “You’re sure?” It almost makes Solona exasperated, because _of course she’s sure_ , but she hears the note of uncertainty in his voice and remembers that he’d always taken sex more seriously than her. Back when they were younger, she had been willing to share his bed from the first time they’d kissed, but he’d wanted to wait. Once they were committed and sleeping together, he couldn’t get enough of it – neither of them could ever get enough of each other – but it had taken him time to be comfortable with that.

The day after she’d arrived here – the incident in his office – had certainly been unusual for him but the circumstance has been… well, emotional and a bit desperate.

So, Solona takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself down. She strokes a thumb across his face, wishing she could remove everything that would make him look so worried. With a quick kiss, she says, “I’m sure, but only if you are.”

His throat bobs as he swallows heavily. “I am. _Maker_ , I am.” His grip on her tightens. “I wanted to do it right – you know, treat you how you deserve to be treated? Before we were so…” He pauses for a moment, clearly thinking back to that time. “We were so _young_ , Solona. And everything was such a mess, and you were the only part of it that made sense.” He gives a small, self deprecating laugh. “And then I messed that up too.” Solona remains silent, but keeps her hand on his face, letting him know she’s here for him with a gentle caress. A slight blush is spreading over his cheeks. “So this time, I wanted to do it right by you.”

“You know you didn’t need to court me.” She says with a smile.

“I know,” he replies earnestly, “but I wanted to. You deserve it, and more. I want you to know that I’m taking this seriously.”

She can feel tears building up behind her eyes, and she tries to swallow them away. She doesn’t want to cry, not even if it’s from happiness. “Oh, Alistair,” she whispers. “I know you are. I’m sorry, I just thought it might have been for benefit of the nobles. You know I’m yours.”

He blinks at how straightforwardly she says it, and then smiles. “It’s still always nice to hear you say it… and yes, well. There was a part of me thinking that perhaps waiting until the nobles have been dealt with would be the right thing to do, but the Landsmeet seems so very… very far away.” His head drops to her shoulder suddenly, his arms engulfing her. “I’m tired of doing the right thing.”

Solona just hugs him back, letting him work through his thoughts.

Alistair keeps talking, his voice muffled against her. “I’ve been trying to do the right thing since I was made king. I don’t want…” He sighs. “The last thing I want is for you to have to beg me to touch you.” His head raises again and he meets her gaze with fire in his own, his expression shifting to one of determination, and Solona knows he’s just a made a decision. When he touches his lips to hers again, she’s elated, and so distracted by the purposeful slid of his tongue against hers that it takes me a moment to realise that one of Alistair’s hands has slid down to her waist and is slowly pulling up the long skirt of her dress along with the slip she’s wearing underneath it. She shivers as the silky feel of the fabric slides up her thighs, and Alistair gathers the material in his hand, bunching it at her waist.

Briefly, Solona thinks about how wrinkled it will be before the feel of Alistair’s other hand on her inner thigh, so close to where she needs him drives out every coherent thought from her mind. Mindlessly, she spreads her legs as best she can to give him better access, anchoring herself on his shoulders, and when his fingers drag over her smalls, they both groan into each others mouths – her at the sensation and him at just how wet she already is.

A second later and his fingers are inside, against her skin, trailing through her wetness. Solona’s breath hitches, her kiss faltering. She opens her eyes, meeting Alistair’s heavy gaze. His lips are grazing hers as they breathe each other in, but he’s watching her as his fingers explore her; her gasp as his thumb finds her clit, her shiver as a finger circles her opening. Solona is still moving against him, seeking _more_ , and Alistair lets go of the bunched up fabric he’d been holding, not needing to hold on anymore now that his hand has found its destination. Gently, he eases a finger in, releasing a sharp breath at how good she feels, imagining how much better it would feel to be sliding another part of himself into her.

But he dismisses that thought for now, wanting to bring her pleasure. When she slumps against the wall to open her legs wider for him, he snakes his free arm around her, holding her up, and her arms wrap tightly around his neck. The fabric he’d been holding up falls around his other hand, hiding his movements. Her breathing is harsh, and when Alistair adds a second finger, her eyes flutter closed as she moans.

His movements speed up, remembering well how Solona likes to be touched, and she continues rocking against his hand. Alistair can’t take his eyes off her face. She’s flushed with a sheen of sweat across her forehead, her hair is coming loose, and each thrust against his fingers is accompanied by a breathy moan. She looks so beautiful, and when her eyes open again, Alistair thinks it’s like no time has passed at all since the last time he’d touched her like this. He remembers the way she looked before she came, the noises she made, the way she clenched around him. It’s all so completely the same that he knows she’s close to peaking, so he speeds up his movements, curling his fingers inside her, grinding his palm against her clit. Her head falls back, hitting the door with a soft thunk, and Alistair ignores the urge to kiss her neck so he can watch her face as she finds her release.

It’s as beautiful as he remembers, seeing her come undone, and he realises that this _is_ the right thing to do. He’d already decided he was going to ensure Solona could stay by his side – there was really no need to torture both of them by not allowing them to be _together_. The court was already rife with rumour and the assumption that they were already lying together.

_Just let those nobles try and separate us_ , Alistair thinks with determination as he watches Solona raise her head and smile lazily at him, clearly satisfied. _They won’t succeed and they will regret it._

She reaches up to kiss him and he responds eagerly. Removing his hand from her, her dress falls down completely and she straightens up as her hands wander down his chest and on further down to skim over the hardness in his trousers, making him hiss into her mouth. When her hands start plucking at his shirt, he steps back, pulling it off quickly.

He pauses once he’s shirtless, enjoying the way Solona’s eyes explore the skin revealed to her. Her ogling is blatant, eyes wide with her lower lip pulled between her teeth, and it makes him grin. Alistair has made sure to keep up the training that made him a formidable warrior during the Blight because Fereldens aren’t fond of lazy kings, for one, but mostly because hitting things with a sword was a good way to work out his frustration, grief and anger; three emotions he’d had to deal with far too much.

More than worth it to see her look at him like that.

“My eyes are up here,” there’s mirth in his voice but he can’t keep the rough edge of arousal out of it.

Her eyes duly snap up to his, and her lips curve in a smile. She steps forward, placing both her palms on his stomach before slowly sliding them up his chest.

The sensation of her warm hands on his bare skin knocks something in Alistair and he stills, taking a shuddering breath as a wave of emotion engulfs him.

Solona takes in his expression, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows. “I just realised that I haven’t…” The words are difficult for him to say. “I think the only people who’ve touched me in the last ten years are the healer and the tailor. Oh, and when I absolutely _have_ to dance with people.” He tries to say the last part lightly, but fails.

The admission makes Solona pause, and her expression shifts into one that pains him. It’s a grief he recognises only too well, and he feels bad for being the one to put the expression on her face. Her hands still rest on his chest, one of them over his thundering heart, and her eyes fall to where they lie. Alistair hates that she looks so sad, that her eyes have that glassy look to them – and that this time it isn’t because of a positive reason.

There’s also guilt there, and he recognises that, too. The knowledge that he’d suffered for her actions, even if she’d saved his life. And he recognises it, of course, because he’s done the same thing to her. They both marked each other with their love, and than gravely wounded each other with their death.

Solona leans forward, resting her forehead against her hands that still rest on his chest. He feels her breath on his skin, She isn’t moving or saying anything and Alistair feels bad that he’s so upset her.

“I really know how to kill the mood, don’t I?” His attempt to sound wry again falls completely flat, but it makes Solona lift her head again. She still has that anguished look on her face, but she lightly shakes her head at his words. She doesn’t apologise for the years she’s left him alone, and neither does he – they’ve both agreed that there’s no point in continually beating themselves up over it.

Although they both continue to do so. Moving forward without the past dragging you down is easier said than done.

Wordlessly, Solona drops her hands and turns around, although she doesn’t move away from him. She pulls the hair away from the nape of her neck and turns her head so she can catch his eye.

“Would you mind…?” She nods over her shoulder and it takes Alistair a moment to realise what she wants, and his eyes run down the length of her back, taking in the ties of her dress.

He plucks at a lace tie and begins to loosen it. Solona smiles faintly, but she still looks upset.

So is Alistair, but the workings of her dress prove to be a distraction. The lace is bound tightly against her, but he makes quick work of untying and loosening it. As he pulls it apart, the dress loosens on Solona’s shoulder’s and waist, revealing the silky chemise she wore under it, which has just been hinted at underneath the ties before.

She sighs as it falls open on her, and pulls the sleeves down over her arms, letting the whole dress fall to the ground. With no hesitation, she grabs the chemise and begins to inch that up and over her head too.

Alistair’s mouth goes dry at the expanse of skin suddenly being revealed to him. Up her legs, over her hips, sliding over her bare back…

_Maker’s breath._

Unable to resist, he places his hands on her hips. All she’s wearing are her smalls that, he thinks, must be uncomfortable after their previous activity. He slides his hands up over her waist and around to the curve of her stomach, enjoying the way she shivers under his touch. He steps closer so that her back is flushed with his chest, and the skin to skin contact overwhelms him for a moment.

_She’s here_ , he thinks. _She’s alive._

_This is real._  

Solona leans against him, her head resting on his shoulder. Slowly he drags his hands up over her soft skin to cup her breasts. She sighs again, that breathy sigh that let’s him know she’s more than okay with his advances and he takes advantage of his superior height to look down over her head at the very nice view of his hands getting reacquainted with her. When he rolls a nipple between his finger and thumb, she arches into him, and the movement against him makes him again very, very aware his erection pressed between them.

The movement also seems to remind Solona of it, and she turns in his arms, tilting her head up for a kiss. Alistair is happy to oblige, and even happier when her hands trail a scorching path down his body until she reaches the ties on his trousers. She pulls them apart and pushes the trousers and his smalls all at once down his hips, still kissing him the whole time.

When she wraps her hand around him, Alistair’s mind goes completely blank, aware of nothing but the press of her body against his and the pleasure shooting through him as she touches him. All too soon she stops and he opens his eyes in a daze to see her grinning up at him.

“Bed, Alistair,” is all she says, making him raise his eyebrows at her at the firm tone, reminding him fondly that she’d never had a problem articulating what she’d wanted in bed.

He does as she says, more than happy to move this somewhere more horizontal, carefully stepping out of his trousers that were still tangled around his calves. Solona follows him across the room, a hand on his back the whole time.

He turns when he reaches the bed, resting his hands on Solona’s shoulders before sliding them down her arms to hold her hands.

“Where would you have me?”

Her eyes widen, and her mouth falls open in a small ‘o’ of surprise as her face flushes. He knows why – it’s not the first time he’s said those words to her. He intends it won’t be the last either. It had started, so long ago, simply because she’d been the more experienced of the two when they’d gotten together, and he’d been happy to have her direct him, worried that he was a blundering fool mindlessly pawing at her. As he’d gotten more confident, and learned that he had a knack for bringing her pleasure, he’d had ideas of his own. But he’d continued saying it to her, usually because it often resulted in her whispering something salacious in his ear that he feared a Chantry sister would somehow overhear despite them being in a tent in the middle of the mountains and who would drag Alistair out by his ear and tell him he had to recite the Chant twenty times in the cold while kneeling on a wooden pallet while thinking about his wickedness.

Eventually all he had to do was say the words, even in an ordinary non-sexual context and she’d give him a look, a _look_ , as a flush spread across her face because there were other people around and she could hardly say “I’d have you on your back, Alistair, so I can sit on your face” while Wynne was standing beside her. But he knew what she was thinking. And she knew he knew.

They’d both end up blushing and counting down the minutes until they could pitch their tent and disappear together into it.

It had been a fun game.

Not for the first time he wondered how he had possibly survived the last ten years without her.

He supposes it was just that – surviving.

So Solona’s simple reply surprises him. “Sit,” is all she says, pressing lightly on his shoulder.

He does so, taking in the sight of her before him. All she’s wearing is her smalls, and he itches to pull them off, leaving her as naked as he is. But he’s distracted by her skin – by scars that weren’t there ten years ago. He brushes a hand along one particularly long, nasty looking scar on her side that he’d somehow missed before, frowning.

She sighs, realising what he’s looking at.

“What was it?” He murmurs.

“Emissary,” she responds, in the same quiet voice. “Cut through my barrier. I was distracted. There was a broodmother…” Solona trails off, and he doesn’t need to hear anymore. He knows too well what it’s like, down there in the Deep Roads. And the broodmothers… they were one of the most nightmarish of everything he’d seen.

Alistair leans forward, gently kissing the puckered skin, and her fingers run softly through his hair.

They stay like that for a moment, urgency forgotten, until Solona says weakly, “I think I’m the one killing the mood now.”

“No,” Alistair says thickly. “I’m just so glad you’re here,” he whispers into her skin, knowing there’s any number of new scars he has to kiss to reassure himself that she is indeed here.

His own body bears no new scars, outwardly. His life, while difficult in other ways, was mostly comfortable. The recent battle with the Venatori had proved that he’s still more than capable in battle, although he’d been flanked by numerous guards that would have given their lives for his – although he made sure they were never in a position to have to make that decision.

It had been so different for Solona.

“I’m glad I’m here, too,” she speaks quietly. Alistair leans back, looking up at her. Her hands remains in his hair. “I love you so much, Alistair.”

“Good,” he beams, “because I love you too.”

Her mouth quirks up, the heaviness of the moment lifting. Then she says, “In that case, there’s something I want to do.”

Alistair raises his eyebrows at her, but doesn’t have a chance to respond before she sinks to her knees in front of him, bringing her hands to rest on his thighs. The feel of her so close to his neglected erection sends a ripple through him.

She peers up at him once she’s settled herself, close enough that he can feel her breath on his skin. “Is this alright?”

He garbles out a positive response because _Maker yes please_ and she dips her head to kiss the tip of him, flicking her tongue over it, before taking him into her mouth proper.She’s so wet and hot around him, and Alistair fists the sheets under his hands, fighting the urge to thrust his hips. He barely manages to keep his eyes open to watch her, hardly even aware of the loud noises he’s making.

She’s making him feel so good, and he’s going to come as embarrassingly fast as he did the first time she did this for him, so long ago. But that’s okay, _because_ it’s been so long, and because it’s her.

With that thought, he unclenches one of his hands and brings it to stroke against Solona’s cheek softly. It makes her eyes snap up to his, and they remain on him as she continues to work him, driving him higher and higher. When Alistair brushes some errant hair out of her face, she hums softly around him and that make his hips flex involuntarily. He keeps a hand in her hair, holding it out the way, so he can see her face properly. Solona is bobbing her head deeper and deeper and using her hand to stroke the rest of him, and he can’t help the jerk of his hips against her now. It’s so good, it’s too good, and everything else in Thedas completely disappears in the face of his mounting pleasure.

He moans her name as a warning, and his grip on her hair tightens. She knows, remembering well the signs, and speeds up, and it’s all Alistair can do not to fall backwards on the bed as he tenses and comes powerfully. Solona keeps her mouth on him the whole time, and he rides out the pleasure, bursts of white light shooting beneath his now closed eyelids.

Alistair, after coming down from his orgasm, opens his eyes to realise that at some point he did fall back on the bed. Blinking, he sits up. Solona is still kneeling before him, a pleased smile on her face.

“Maker, Solona, that was…” Alistair tries to remember how to form words. “Life affirming.”

She laughs and stands. Alistair, craving closeness again, wraps his arms around her, hugging her around her middle and pressing his face against her stomach. She hugs back as best she can given her position, arms tight around his shoulders.

“You are staying the night, aren’t you?” His voice is a murmur.

“Of course,” she replies softly. “I’d stay every night if you wanted me.”

He groans. “I do.”

“Why have you waited?”

Alistair sighs. “That whole trying to do the right thing I mentioned before. The right thing by you, the right thing for a king to be doing.” He shrugs. “All I’ve really done is make the last while frustrating for both of us.”

“That you did,” Solona teases him and then pulls away.

He makes a whine of complaint, holding onto her smalls. “Take these off and get into bed.”

Raising an eyebrow, Solona looks down at him, surprised by the firm tone. But she can’t help the smile spreading across her face. “Yes, your Majesty.”

Alistair makes a disgruntled noise at the use of his title, but he’s distracted when she places her hands over his, encouraging him to pull down her smalls. He groans as she’s revealed to him, and she steps out of them before he can touch and distract her again, leaving her smalls discarded on the floor with the rest of her clothes, and nimbly climbs into the bed behind him.

This spurs him into action. Alistair stands and moves over to the fire, throwing more wood on it from the pile. Then he swiftly moves about the room, extinguishing the candles.

Solona watches him the whole time, stretched out on the bed contentedly as her gaze travels across his naked form. Alistair catches her eye.

“Admiring the view?” he drolly asks.

“Yes, this room is very tastefully decorated.”

He huffs out a laugh, putting out the last candle and quickly crossing the room to slide into the bed beside her. He presses himself close to her, their chests flush against each other. In his head are any number of cheeky responses to what she’s just said, but right now he’s far more interested in kissing her.

So he does, and they stay like that for some time, breathing each other in, until they both doze off, wrapped up in each other.

\---

Solona wakes up to a dim room. She hasn’t been sleeping that long – the fire still burns, although it’s lower now, and it’s obviously still the middle of the night.

What wakes her are the lips on the back of her neck, the strong body pressed against her, and the hand caressing her breasts. Her breath hitches as his teeth scrape across delicate skin, and she lets out a low hum of approval.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Alistair says, his voice own voice thick with sleep, and she turns her head to the side, just able to make out the grin on his face in the darkness. Before she can reply he continues. “Alright, so that’s a lie. I did mean to wake you.”

He lowers his head to kiss her, sending scorching heat through her body and waking her up completely. “I hope you can forgive me,” Alistair murmurs against her lips.

She responds by turning completely in his arms so she can kiss him better, resting her hand on his cheek, stroking his skin with her thumb and throwing a leg around his hip. She can feel his erection nestled against her, and they both groan when Alistair grinds against her –

– and suddenly their kisses and touches take on a desperate edge and Solona needs him, she needs him more than she needs air and judging from Alistair’s frantic kisses and the way he’s gripping her, he feels the same way. He rolls them so that she’s on her back, never removing his mouth from hers, settling himself between her legs and Solona reaches down to guide him inside her. She gasps and struggles to keep her eyes open as he begins to fill her and Alistair’s head drops to her shoulder, a shudder running through him.

Now that they’re joined they both still, the desperation of moments before leaving them as they both savour feeling this again. They’re both breathing harshly already, like they’ve just been in a pitched battle.

Alistair lifts his head to gaze down at her. “You feel…” His voice is strained, just like the tendons and muscles she can see on his arms, holding him above her, and feel down his back where her hand travels.

He doesn’t finish his sentence, which is fine because Solona knows. It’s the same for her. He just presses deeper inside insider, making her gasp again. She feels so full and so good, and as Alistair begins to move, slowly but purposefully, she can’t help but moan at each stroke, lifting her hips to meet each of his thrusts, savouring the feeling.

The whole time, she keeps her eyes on his; one hand grasping the back of his neck, the other one probably marking his skin with her nails as she grips his shoulder, like she’s afraid if she doesn’t hold on, he’ll disappear. Alistair leans down to kiss her, a messy, unsophisticated kiss as his thrusts speed up. He keeps his face by hers, their chests flush. It’s impossible for them to be any closer than they are. Each time he fills her, his pelvis brushes against her clit in the most delicious way.

Solona brushes some of his hair out of his eyes and keeps her hand in his hair. He’s panting into her ear, and when he suddenly grabs under her knees to hike her legs onto his shoulders, she cries out at the change in angle and the feel of him reaching even deeper. She’s almost overwhelmed with it all, with how much she loves this man and how lucky she is to have him again – to have him like _this_ again.

She feels like she should say this, but even her moans are breathless by now. Actual words are out of the question.

“Sol…Solona…” Alistair isn’t much better, but the feel of his breath against her cheek and ear is just another stimulus on her already sensitive body and it’s not much longer before she comes so hard she’s seeing stars. Alistair moans as she convulses around him, and Solona holds on as her pleasure washes over her. He finds his own release not long after, his thrusts growing erratic, his moans music to her ears. She runs her hands up and down his back even after he stills, and they both lie there for some time, catching their breaths. Solona’s eyes drift closed and she breathes him in.

Her body finally uncoils, and her legs fall back to the bed, like they’re too heavy for her to move. Alistair doesn’t pull out of her yet, but he rests his elbows by her head to keep most of his weight off her, and begins peppering kisses across her face. She smiles, her eyes still closed. Her hands are locked together behind his back – otherwise she thinks they too would fall to her side.

He kisses her nose, and then bites it gently, making Solona open her eyes. He’s grinning at her, a lazy, satisfied grin that makes the years fall away from him. She has to take a deep breath to quell the rising emotion in her, but the feel of Alistair pulling out of her is enough of a distraction. He turns, hanging over the side of the bed, his own movements a bit sluggish, before he returns to her with fabric in one hand – some of their discarded clothing, she doesn’t even know what it is. When he uses it to clean them up, and she registers the very soft fabric gently gliding against her, she resists the urge to giggle at the idea of using these expensive clothes to clean up after sex.

Once he’s done, Alistair tosses the garment away and quickly draws the curtain around the large bed,cocooning them in their own world, before he pulls them both under the sheets again. Solona curls up on her side facing him, throwing a leg over his hip to keep him close, still greedy for his skin. His head drops to the pillow beside hers.

“Hi,” she says, inadequately.

He laughs lightly, shaking both of them. “Hello.”

“Good evening.”

“Well met.”

“Maker’s greeting.”

“Aneth ara.”

Solona pauses. “Using Elvish is cheating.”

“I didn’t know we had rules for this.” Alistair slides a hand down her side to grab her arse, shifting her closer to him. He keeps his hand there, squeezing now and then. He kisses her forehead. “Don’t be a sore loser, my love.”

She’s too tired to even fake an attempt to look cross. “When did you learn Elvish?”

He hums. “I didn’t, not really. Just enough to help when talking to the Dalish. It seemed right to make the effort.”

They’re both silent for a moment as they settle against each other. After a beat Solona yawns and says, “Alistair?”

“Hmm?” She can tell he’s tired too, and her eyes drift shut again.

“That was… life affirming,” she finally mumbles, using his earlier words.

She feels more than hears his small puff of laughter. “It certainly was.”

Silence falls over them, and Solona tucks herself even more tightly against him. She presses a small kiss against his shoulder and whispers, “Goodnight, Alistair.”

His arms tighten around her as he mumbles his own goodnight, curling around her.

They’re both soon asleep, enjoying their most blissful sleep in over ten years.

\---

In the morning, when a servant comes in to light the fire, he’s not surprised to find the king still sleeping at this early hour. While Alistair is often awake by now, it is known he had a late dinner and meeting with the Inquisitor the previous evening. What does make the servant pause are the clothes scattered throughout the room – the king’s clothes and what is undoubtedly a woman’s dress.

His eyes drag from the spent fire to the curtained bed, and for a moment he’s unsure. But then he decides that he hasn’t been told _not_ to do his usual duties, so he tries to clear out the ashes of last night’s fire and build it up again as quietly as he can. This is what he usually does, if the king is still sleeping, but the king has always been alone before.

He quickly goes through his other duties, finishing by placing a fresh pitcher of water on the table by the bed. To his relief, there’s still no movement going on, only the quiet sounds of breathing. Briefly he agonises over whether to tidy up the discarded clothes, but when the shifting sound of movement and a very feminine sounding sigh comes from behind the curtains, he decides to leave.

Picking his way across the room, he slips out the door quietly, and he can’t help but wonder if this is going to become a regular occurrence.

(It is.)


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the busy night, it’s a fresh faced Solona that joins the Inquisition members the following morning.

The sound of the servant in the room had woken her that morning. She’d waited until he left, and then she’d kissed Alistair awake for another round of love-making before he’d arranged for her to wash and dress in his room rather than walk back to her own in yesterday’s dress, broadcasting exactly where she’d been and what she’d been doing the night before.

There is still going to be gossip about it, regardless, but they both set it out of their minds for now to focus on what the Inquisition came here for.

Still, Solona can hardly keep the smile off her face – she feels like a teenager in the first flush of love again, and she has to keep reminding herself that she’s in an infinitely more complicated situation. But it’s not enough to really distract her thoughts, which keep drifting back to last night and this morning, to the feel of Alistair over her, moving in her, his hands and lips all over her. She aches in the most pleasant way.

It’s good enough to again make her wonder if she isn’t in some Fade dream but Maker, she’s not leaving now.

Trying to drag her mind to more important issues, she sees that all the mages – Lavellan, Dorian, and Solas – are gathered around the amulet. Cassandra and Leliana sit nearby listening, but unable to add much to the magical discussion going on. Occasionally there’s a flare of magic as one of the mages casts a spell.

Solona sits by Leliana, who turns to her with a soft smile. “It is fascinating to watch them,” Leliana says, indicating the mages. “A Tevinter, a Dalish, and a hedge mage. It sounds like the start of a joke, no?”

“Have you studied this amulet yourself, Lady Amell?” Cassandra asks.

She nods. “A little.” Once Alistair had made clear his trust in her, it had been available for her to study whenever she wanted. “But it’s not my area of expertise, and I thought it better to wait for someone better equipped.” She doesn’t admit to the real reason she hasn’t examined it in close detail: she’s half afraid that if she touches it, it will send her back to where she came from and unable to get back. It’s not logical – the magic in it doesn’t work like that. But she still doesn’t want to touch it, and the spells being cast on it are putting her on edge, even though she knows that no one present will do anything reckless.

Alistair arrives then, interrupting the conversation – not that Solona minds – with Eamon at his side. Greetings follow, and Solona tries to hide her giddy feelings that arise at the sight of him. She mostly succeeds, although when Alistair smiles at her, almost shyly she can’t stop herself from giving him a wide smile in return.

She starts in surprise when she feels someone squeeze her hand. It’s Leliana, who’s looking at her fondly. “I know I risk repeating myself, but It is making me more sentimental than I’ve been in many years, seeing you again, _and_ seeing you with Alistair.” Leliana’s voice is quiet, drowned out by the other conversations taking place.

Solona places her other hand on Leliana’s squeezing it right back. “We’ll catch up properly, soon. Away from…” She glances around the busy room, and gives a light laugh. “All this.”

Leliana’s eyes sparkle. “I would like that. Perhaps at the Pearl, for old time’s sake?”

Solona laughs again, louder. She’s laughed more in the last few days than she has in the last ten years. It feels good.

Alistair is looking at her again with a warm expression, but she sees him drag his eyes away to focus on the amulet. “Have you discovered anything about it?”

Dorian answers, his eyes bright. “Oh, yes. The magic is complicated and layered. They’ve certainly studied Alexius’ theories, although I daresay they’ve implemented them in ways he never expected. It’s fascinating to see.”

“Alexius?” Solona asks. The name sounds vaguely familiar to her, but she can’t place it.

Dorian pauses, glancing over at her. A shadow crosses his face. “A magister. His interest lies in pushing the boundaries of known magic. You know what happened at Redcliffe?”

“Ah,” Solona replies. “That was him?”

Dorian nods. “He found a way to twist the very fabric of time itself.” He drops his gaze back to the amulet. “I was his apprentice, for a time. So I’m familiar with his work.”

“Is it similar magic to what you did at Redcliffe, to send us back in time?” asks Lavellan.

Dorian considers. “Similar in that I would say they are two branching paths from the same source. The time magic Alexius used sends someone forwards or backwards. This,” he indicates the amulet, “sends you sideways.”

“Sideways.” Solona states flatly.

Dorian arches an eyebrow at her tone. “I’ve only been looking at it for less than an hour – were you perhaps expecting a sourced and peer reviewed thesis?”

Her response is rueful. “I suppose not.”

“Yes, well. This is less refined than Alexius’ work, but that’s to be expected. No one can do what he does.”

“Can you tell how far… sideways it sent me?”

“No, which is why it’s less refined. Powerful, of course. Clever magic. But erratic – not fully tested would be my guess. And Alexius sent us through time. This is something else that’s harder to decipher, and I’m not sure what it is.”

“Not the Fade?” Alistair asks.

Solas shakes his head. “I cannot say what it is, but I can tell you with certainty that it is not the Fade.”

“You say it is erratic,” begins Leliana. “Is it possible the Venatori were unsure where it would send someone?”

“A possibility, certainty. All of this is just conjecture.” Dorian’s expression has that shadow on it again. “And while I’d usually say no one would be stupid enough to use such powerful and untested magic like this, the Venatori do worship a darkspawn magister. Common sense clearly isn’t their speciality.” He sighs. “I almost can’t blame you Southerners for how you view us.”

Lavellan has been thoughtfully listening. “Can we test it?”

“Test it? On what?” Cassandra sounds understandably wary.

The Inquisitor shrugs. “A book? I”m not suggesting we do it to a person.”

Dorian is impatient. “Yes, I imagine we could _possibly_ do that, but this is the firstproblem – I don’t know where I’m sending it. Will this just send it back to where Lady Amell came from? Or somewhere else entirely? Who knows. Secondly – it requires a lot of power. So too did Alexius’ time magic, of course, but that was…” He pauses for a moment, contemplative. “Smooth, in a sense. Well _defined_.”

“You sound impressed by it.” Alistair very distinctly does not sound impressed.

“Of course I was. This was theory I’d studied and never expected would work. It was _hypothetical_. I can be impressed by what Alexius did even while knowing that just because we _can_ do something doesn’t mean we actually _should_. It’s something much of the Magisterium could do with learning.” Dorian seems to realise he’s talking to a king and modulates his irritated tone. “Your Majesty, please don’t think I condone what happened at Redcliffe. My point is simply that this –” he gestures at the amulet ”– isn’t smooth. It’s crudely punching a hole through a stone wall using brute force and I don’t recommend actually attempting to use it, even for a test. At least not before considerably extensive study. It’s too unknown.”

Alistair nods, mollified.

“The only way we could find out for certain would be to question a Venatori,” Leliana says. “A high ranking one.”

“It would be difficult to take one alive,” Cassandra responds, frowning.

“But not impossible.” Leliana gives a small, dangerous smile. “I can arrange it.”

Solona finds she’s getting irritated by the conversation, because she’s realised she no longer cares that she doesn’t know how this happened. Oh, it’s all interesting, of course. She understands why Dorian is so fascinated by it. If circumstances were different she probably would be too. Maybe in the future she will want to know. But mostly this conversation has made her realise she doesn’t care, because she’s not interested in getting back to where she came from, and that she wishes they could move on and start dealing with getting Alistair’s cure arranged.

“Is it worth the effort?” Solona asks bluntly.

“Would the knowledge of the weapons of our enemies not be worth the effort?” It’s Solas who asks her this, and she meets his even gaze.

The Inquisitor frowns at her. “And would you not like to go home?”

_Ah_. Solas’ point is valid, but as for the other… Solona realises they’re working under a misapprehension. It’s been so taken for granted by her that it’s obvious she doesn’t want to go back that she hasn’t considered it might not be to others. _Home_ , she thinks. Her home is with Alistair. She doesn’t care where it is, so long as it’s with him.

“No.” She keeps her voice neutral. Solona can understand why it might be difficult for some people to accept that, but she hopes they won’t press her. Her eyes dart to Alistair, instinctively. He’s watching her, of course, a smile he probably isn’t aware of on his face. 

“You don’t want to go back?” Dorian’s voice is curious, but non-judgemental.

Solona turns her gaze to him, aware of everyone’s attention on her now and a little uncomfortable with it. “No.” She says again, more forcibly.

“That’s good, then, because I don’t know where this might send you, if it doesn’t kill you.” He sighs. “I would dearly love to know why you ended up here. Was it chance? Did the magic react to your location, or to something in you?” Dorian’s eyes flit briefly to the king.

“Could it have anything to do with how you died?” Lavallen asks in her grave way. She’s looking at Solona, so she misses the way Alistair flinches, but she seems to realise the bluntness of her question anyway. “I apologise – I know it must be strange to talk about. But my understanding is that the Warden who kills the archdemon doesn’t die a normal death.”

“That’s right. The taint a Warden carries attracts the soul of the archdemon so that when a Warden makes the killing blow, both are destroyed, but it ends the Blight. Otherwise the soul will transfer to a darkspawn, and the Blight continues. Without the Old God, the darkspawn return underground.”

Solas looks disgruntled as she speaks. “You speak of destroying the soul of an Old God so easily.”

Solona narrows her eyes at him, annoyed. Her tone is biting. “Do you know of another way of ending the Blight?”

He inclines his head. “I mean no disrespect. Just that I fear it is a short sighted approach.”

“Well, you clearly weren’t in Ferelden back then,” Alistair’s voice is tight.

“Perhaps you’re right, Solas, but at the time it was either one of us kill the archdemon or we _all_ die,” Solona says, trying to keep a reign on her temper. _How dare he?_ She’d long been critical of the way Wardens do things, and perhaps there was another way, but they hadn’t had the luxury of even considering it. Well, there was Morrigan’s offer, she supposes, but that hardly seemed preferable. “So again, if you have another solution…”

“Solas,” Lavellan mutters quietly, placing her hand on his.

He sighs, and leans back in his chair. “You are right, of course. I apologise. And it is hardly relevant to the topic at hand.”

Dorian, who is looking at Solas with an incredulous expression – and he isn’t the only one – turns the conversation back on topic. “Never mind all that. Truly, I don’t see how the cause of her death _here_ would have an effect. But…” He shrugs. “This is all speculation and that amulet is a complete hodge podge of dangerous magic. Anything is possible. I’m not opposed to Leliana’s idea of questioning a Venatori, as it would be worthwhile to learn about what we’re dealing with. But it’s good to know you aren’t relying on it. It gives us time, at least.”

Solona nods. “The secrets of that amulet aren’t going to be unlocked in a day. Can we move on to the other matter?” She addresses her question to Alistair, who appears deep in thought but gives her a nod in response.

“Dorian’s right. Knowing what we’re up against is important. I’m happy for the Inquisition to take the amulet for study. I trust you’ll be responsible with it.” What Alistair doesn’t say is that there’s little point in keeping it in Denerim. They don’t have anyone with the knowledge to study it, and it would just end up locked in the vault, gathering dust – or would possibly be destroyed to prevent unsavoury use.

“Of course, your Majesty,” says the Inquisitor smoothly. “I’ve seen too much magic get out of hand. No one wants to risk it. And I trust Dorian.”

“Good.” Alistair takes a seat then, facing the Inquisitor. He looks around the table and says brightly, “So, dragons?”

Solona ducks her head, hiding her smile.

“Dragons.” Lavellan replies, all seriousness. “Lady Amell – you say we’ve done this with you before?”

“Yes, in the Hinterlands.”

“Oh,” says Lavellan, “we’ve already slain that one.” There’s an element of pride in her tone that tickles Solona. Inquisitor Lavellan seems so very young to her, even though she’s clearly older than both Alistair and Solona were during the Blight. The elf isn’t the most chatty, but Solona likes her. She would say she’s possibly too nice for the position she’s in, and that she wears the title of Inquisitor almost like a serious little girl wearing her mother’s clothes and pretending to be an adult. It’s too big for her, but she might yet still grow into it.

Solona wonders if she’d appeared the same way to people older than her when she’d been trying to stop the Blight.

“Yes,” says Dorian, obviously recalling their encounter with the Hinterlands dragon. “Fond memories of being set on fire. Wonderful way to see your country.”

That last comment is directed at Alistair, who simply raises an eyebrow and says dryly, “On behalf of Ferelden, thank you for your service.”

Cassandra interrupts them. “There are other high dragons in Ferelden – we can’t possibly take the king into Orlais. Not only will it take longer, it risks a diplomatic incident if it is discovered.” There are noises of agreements throughout the room.

Solas is thoughtful. “There are those reports of the dragon we saw along the Storm Coast appearing on an island nearby – now that those dwarven ruins have been cleared of red templars, we should be able to get there easily.”

Lavellan nods, her expression warming as Solas speaks. “There’s also the one that’s appeared in Crestwood after we drained the lake.”

Alistair narrows his eyes. “Is anyone asking just _why_ there are so many high dragons around these days?” There’s an edge in his voice and Solona wonders if it’s just about the dragons. Despite the fact that she’d been in Skyhold before, and knew the general work the Inquisition is doing, it’s another thing to hear just how very involved they are across Ferelden, far beyond just the closing of rifts. She wonders if that bothers Alistair. It’s not like he can even bring it up now, when he’ll be in the Inquisitor’s debt for her personal help to him – twice – and for the good they did in the Hinterlands and Redcliffe. Their power and influence seems to grow every day.

“I rather think everyone is too busy running away from them, your Majesty.” Dorian tone is mild.

“The Storm Coast would be closer,” states Eamon.

But Solona shakes her head. “Crestwood would be better.” A flicker of irritation crosses Eamon’s face at her easy dismissal and she hastens to continue. “The dragon in the Storm Coast is on an island you said?” At the nod from the Inquisitor she continues. “If anything goes wrong it’ll be harder to get help. At least in Crestwood it’s easier to get to a town.” It also wasn’t that much further along the North Road, and will probably be an easier journey than trekking through the wilds of the Storm Coast. 

“You’re expecting something to go wrong?” Eamon asks, slightly challenging.

“No.” Solona manages to keep her cool. Her patience with Eamon grows ever thinner, but she’s trying not to show it outwardly. She knows his unwillingness to let go of his suspicion of her is becoming a problem for Alistair too, although his hope is that once he’s cured, Eamon will come around. “I’m just thinking of the king’s wellbeing, my lord. Fighting dragons isn’t exactly safe.” She doesn’t mention her real fear – that the Cure will go wrong.

“And that–”

“ _That_ ,” Alistair interjects sharply, “has been decided.” Alistair has been firm in his decision to fight alongside the Inquisitor if they were doing this on his behalf. It understandably bothers Eamon – it’s a risk, and the king has no heir. It bothers Solona too, and she’d rather he use his position as an excuse to sit the battle out. She imagines the Inquisitor would also prefer that – being responsible for the death of the king of Ferelden wouldn’t be a good look for the Inquisition.

But that’s not Alistair. He would never sit it out. She hasn’t even argued with him about it, just like he hasn’t asked her to not take part in the battle either. They fought together for too long to insult each other like that.

Anyway, if there’s one thing her close perusal of his body last night taught her is that he definitely still trains regularly, so she hopes his skills are as sharp as they were before. Even if she had not had the pleasure of _that_ , Alistair still clearly moves like a warrior.

Eamon backs down, resigned.

“Crestwood,” Solona says firmly.

Discussion about it flies around for a few moments, which Solona stays out of. She’s made her point, and she knows she’s right, so she’ll let them come to the correct conclusion in their own time.

Her thoughts drift for a few moments. The conversation about the amulet and the possibility of unlocking the magic in it bothers her, because it makes her think of the world she’s left behind so easily. When she dwells on it, she feels guilty.

So instead, she mentally goes through her checklist for what they need, pleased that preparations have come together so quickly – but that’s the benefit of having royal power and money behind you. Even the rarer reagents she needs were procured easily enough. Not all of them have arrived in Denerim, but they can send ravens out to intercept the collectors and meet them at Crestwood.

Her heart speeds up with nerves now that she knows this will happen soon. Everything is falling into place. Quietly, she watches Alistair in discussion with the Inquisitor. If she’s successful, she’s given them both the chance at a long life, together.

If she fails… she’ll be viewed as the one responsible for the death of Ferelden’s king. It could well throw the country into chaos. Alistair has made provisions, just in case, but they both know it’s not that simple.

If Alistair dies, she suspects imprisonment and probably execution will be her fate. She doesn’t care about that, because no punishment would be as bad as watching Alistair die, again, and having to live through it. _Again_.

She’s not going to be able to live through it again.

So she’s doing all she can to make sure it won’t happen. She’s made some refinements to the formula – there’s no need to make it more painful and unpleasant than it needs to be, but there’s only so much she can do about that. She’s hesitant to change it too much, and wishes there was some better way to test this, to have more certainty about it all and to know that her own cure wasn’t a complete fluke.

For a moment she feels like she’s no better than the Venatori mage, playing with reckless and unknown magic. But Alistair catches her gaze, and something in it steadies her – he trusts her to do this, to cure him. He has no fear that she’ll steer him wrong. He may be king, but in this he’s still following her with the same devotion he had during the Blight.

Solona takes a deep breath. She’ll make sure she’s worthy of that.

\---

She’s correct in a number of things: they do decide on Crestwood, and they also decide to move quickly. Eamon is left in charge at Denerim, making excuses for the king. The official reason for his departure is to form a closer relationship with the Inquisition – who are viewed very favourably in Ferelden right now. The king wishes to see first hand the good work the Inquisition is doing.

That in itself doesn’t alarm the nobles or his council. After all, Solona hears one of them mutter, Cailan used to take off without notice to go hunting regularly, for weeks at a time, leaving the running of the kingdom entirely to Anora and the council. At least this king has always been responsible.

It’s the fact that Solona is accompanying Alistair that makes some people uncomfortable.

But they can do little more than grumble about it, and within days they are ready to leave Denerim. Solona spends a lot of time going over the procedure for the Cure. Dorian is as interested in this as he is in the Tevinter amulet, and is delighted when he browses through the notes she brought with her when he sees his own handwriting in there.

“I am just marvellously clever, aren’t I?” He beams to the group, earning a sigh from both Solas and Cassandra.

They leave quietly, in the stillness of an early morning before the sun has risen. No need to make a song and dance about the king’s departure, after all, and raise suspicion as to why he isn’t travelling with a guard.

\---

Alistair is delighted to be out of Denerim and on the road, _especially_ without a guard.

“Occasionally I’ve managed to sneak out but my guards have grown wily to my ways over the years,” he says by the fire after they’ve set up camp that evening. They’ve made good progress – the weather is cold, but it’s dry, and the roads are good. They’ve picked a spot just off the North Road, sheltered by trees. Alistair’s armour is excellent quality, but nondescript. He looks like any other soldier, not a king, and he’s pleased that the people they pass on the road don’t know who he is. The fawning makes him uncomfortable, even now, and, of course, his status always makes him a target.

The Inquisitor gets more attention, but she _does_ have a hand that glows. He can understand the interest.

Lavellan is looking at him with a commiserating expression as he speaks. “Getting watched all the time does take some getting used to, doesn’t it?”

He’s not sure if he’ll ever be used to it, although it must be even stranger for a Dalish elf to suddenly find herself considered a holy figure of a religion she doesn’t even follow. “Here’s a tip: I’ve found mabari are a good distraction. They bark, cause a ruckus, chew nobles shoes, drool on important correspondence, generally get people to stop looking at me. I’ve had whole litters trained to do my nefarious bidding.”

Across the fire, he sees Solona smile at his words, catching his eye before returning her attention to Leliana. The Inquisition’s Spymaster had originally intended to return to Skyhold once it had been established who the impersonator calling herself Solona Amell was. But when she realised she had her old friend back, Leliana had decided to stay with them and assist against the dragon. She and Solona had spent most of the days riding side by side, chatting the whole time.

Bar Cassandra, the other Inquisition members seem surprised by Leliana’s demeanour around Solona. Alistair can see how Leliana has changed in the last ten years – they’ve kept in touch. Like them all, she’s seen too much death, and she’s still recovering from the loss of the Divine. He can see how that’s affected her, and he can also see how she views Solona being returned to them as a miracle – even if it’s come through the magic of their enemies. _The Maker works in mysterious ways, Alistair_ , is what she’d say.

She’s lighter, talking to Solona. The coldness that the Inquisition sees melts away.

His eyes slide from Leliana back to Solona, and just like Leliana’s coldness, the last ten years melt away, and he’s sitting with Wynne and Zevran, trying and failing not to stare at the beautiful woman across the fire who also seems to be trying and failing to not stare right back at him. She listens to Leliana, responds and smiles, and her eyes drift back towards him, firelight dancing in them and all Alistair wants to do is go over to her and…

…and an exaggerated cough from the Inquisitor draws him back to the present. He’s not sitting with Wynne and Zevran and this isn’t ten years ago. He’s sitting with the Inquisitor and a mage from Teviniter and he’s a king on his way to fight a dragon.

Solona is still looking at him from across the fire like she’s ready to drag him into her tent and her way with him.

She probably is. _That_ hasn’t changed.

The Inquisitor is saying something, and Dorian replies, and he tries to listen, he really does.

In the last few days they haven’t had much time together, what with the preparations for the journey, and he already misses her.

“…dance naked under a new moon.”

Dorian’s words followed by the Inquisitor’s short laugh finally snap him out of his thoughts, and he runs back through his mind what they were saying. His head swivels around to stare at them.

“Sooo… dancing naked under a new moon? Is that a thing all Dalish clans do, or just yours? Or is he spreading unfounded rumours about your people?” He asks Lavellan, keeping his voice light.

He’s been caught not paying attention, he knows, but the Inquisitor seems more amused than anything else. “You’re right, Dorian,” she says. “That did catch his attention.”

“Of course it did,” is Dorian’s dry reply. “It’s nice to see that all those rumours were true, though.”

Alistair frowns. “What rumours?”

“Oh, the ones about you and the Hero of Ferelden. They even reached Tevinter, back when the Blight was stopped. Some of them were quite scandalous – for Fereldens, anyway. If it had come from Orlais, nobody would have batted an eyelid.”

“Dorian.” Cassandra hisses at him from where she’d been inspecting her gear and sharpening her sword nearby. “Don’t forget you’re speaking to the _king_ of Ferelden.”

“Oh please, Cassandra,” his retort is dismissive. “Let’s not pretend you’re above the gossip now, shall we?”

A glaring match begins between the two of them that makes Lavellan look exasperated, but which just amuses Alistair. “Cassandra enjoys romance novels,” she explains to him in a low voice. “She was saying last night that it’s a shame Varric isn’t here, because she wants him to write the story of you and Lady Amell.”

The mere mention of her name makes Alistair look towards Solona again. She and Leliana have been joined by Solas and Solona is giving the elf her full attention. He’s heard them have a few discussions about the magic used to send her here, although Solona has nothing new to tell him. From the intent expression on his face, Alistair suspects it’s more of the same. He seems to have a burning need to understand how she got here.

He drags his eyes away again to try and pay attention to the conversation going on around him. He’s aware there were some novels already written about them right after the Blight, with probably varying degrees of lewdness, but he’s always ignored them all. It might have been the kind of thing that would have been amusing to read if she’d still been around but without her… no. He’d just ignored them all. Eamon hadwanted to suppress some of them but Alistair hadn’t seen the point, and he hadn’t wanted to come out the gates as a king looking like a tyrant by confiscating books that were ultimately harmless.

The conversation flows around him, and he’s content to sit back and relax, enjoying the simple freedom of sitting outside by a fire. The North Road is relatively safe now, so while they have set up a watch rotation for the night, no one is expecting trouble.

But by the time he and Solona retire to their tent, Alistair is full of nervous energy.

So, it would appear, is Solona, and he’s only just pinned the entrance to their tent closed before she pulls him down and has him on his back before he knows it. She throws a leg over his waist, straddling him, and leans down to give him a searing kiss that he feels all the way down to his toes. When she works off his armour and shirt and most of the rest of his clothes, he’s not aware of the hard ground underneath him, or the biting cold that permeates their tent. All he’s really aware of is Solona, her bare skin revealed to him, the way her mouth drops open when she slids down onto him, taking him in to the hilt in one go. The very hot, wet feel of her around him as she begins to move.

Distantly he knows he barely has it in him to be aware of the sounds he’s making – and neither is she. So he pulls her mouth down to his, and they swallow each other’s cries and moans, and the wind covers up the rest.

\---

They make good time to Crestwood, and Solona is pleased to find the remaining supplies they need for the Cure waiting for them at Caer Bronach.

“They’ve certainly made themselves at home,” Alistair mutters quietly to her, low enough so that the others don’t hear. 

He’s right; the Keep is bustling with activity, and is full of Inquisition soliders, personnel, merchants, and Maker knows who else. They hang back, standing together, as the Inquisitor speaks to an elf who appears to be in command. Even here, they’re keeping Alistair’s identity on a need to know basis.

“It’s just until they’ve defeated Corypheus,” she murmurs back.

“I suppose.” He sighs. “I also suppose I can’t fault them for doing what I should have. If I’d known what was happening here, I’d have sent soldiers.”

“Even then, only the Inquisitor could have closed the rift.” She takes his hand, armoured as it is, and he presses back slightly, about to reply when the Inquisitor and the other elf approach them.

The Inquisitor gestures to the elf. “This is Charter – she’s our commander here. Charter – allow me to introduce King Alistair and Lady Amell.”

The elf gives a short bow. “Your Majesty. Lady Amell. A pleasure to have you here – supplies have already arrived for you.”

Alistair enters into a chat with Charter, curious about the status of the Keep, and Solona’s attention wanders as she watches him. He’s borne the journey well, but she can see he’s missing his creature comforts. While he’s still in good shape – and from watching him spar with Cassandra she knows he’s also still deadly in a fight – he’s still become unused to living rough. Even in the relatively short time she’s been living at the palace, so has she. It’s easy to get used to comfortable beds and servants.

However, Alistair never complains, and pulls his weight when it comes to taking watch or helping with food or setting up the camp, and he mostly seems to be enjoying himself. The break from court is doing him good.

A part of Solona selfishly wishes they could stay like this – two unknown people left to live their lives with the unwanted burden of expectation.

But she doesn’t dwell on it. Not only is it pointless, but she’s been given a second chance and she’s not going to complain because it’s not convenient enough, especially not when she’s happy.

So It’s with relief that Alistair shucks off his armour and boots and falls into their bed when they reach their room late that evening. He stretches out with a long exhale before propping himself up on an elbow to watch Solona get ready for bed – something she’s doing leisurely now that they have privacy and a room with a ceiling and four walls. They’ve both bathed and eaten a good dinner, and discussed strategy with the others over the meal.

Tomorrow they’ll be facing the dragon and Solona expects Alistair to recover here after the battle and administering the Cure. Tonight they’re supposed to be resting.

“Did you know,” Alistair starts, “that Morrigan is at Skyhold? Leliana mentioned it.”

The very mention of Morrigan makes Solona tense. She and Alistair haven’t discussed Morrigan beyond that conversation they’d had about her offer, back on that sunny day in the garden. She didn’t _want_ to discuss Morrigan. There was nothing worth saying about Morrigan. So all she says in reply is a short “yes” and turns away to brush out her hair.

“Was she there when you were at Skyhold?” She can feel his eyes on her, and hear the curiosity in his voice.

Solona exhales slowly through her nose, trying to concentrate on her hair. “Yes.”

Alistair continues on. “Did you speak to her?”

Solona gives up, placing the brush down on the table she’s sitting at. “Briefly.”

“Was it… bad?” Alistair sounds hesitant now, probably regretting he brought up the topic in the first place.

Solona’s jaw clenches. “Yes,” she snaps, annoyed at his questions. She refuses to turn and look at him. “It’s _Morrigan_ ,” she says, bitterly.

He sighs. “A fair point.”

She stands so quickly she nearly knocks her stool over. There’s such a sudden anger in her, both at herself and Morrigan, and possibly even a little bit at Alistair, that she can’t sit still. She moves restlessly across the room, extinguishing some candles, straightening Alistair’s armour on its stand.

He’s still watching her, she knows. Probably trying to figure out why the mere mention of Morrigan’s name has bothered her so much.

She blows out a few more candles, and finally turns to him. “I’m tired,” she says blankly. But she makes no move towards the bed.

“O-kaaay.” Alistair regards her, a little astonished by her abrupt behaviour. He pulls himself off the bed and walks towards her, gently touching her arm. “Solona. What is it?”

She shakes her head. “It’s noth–”

“Don’t say it’s nothing when it’s obviously something,” he says sharply, and then sighs. “I’m sorry,” he begins. “I didn’t mean to upset you by bringing her up, I just… I don’t know. I was curious. You don’t have to tell me, I just don’t want you to go to sleep angry at me.”

Her shoulders sag at that. “I’m not angry at you.” She pauses and reconsiders. “No, actually, I am a little angry at you. And I’m angry at myself. _And_ Morrigan. She said–” Solona takes a deep breath. “She said something about how I must regret my decision, and how pathetic I was for mourning a man for so long. And then she said _well, Warden, at least you survived,”_ Solona’s impression of Morrigan is uncanny. Alistair most decidedly does not like it. “ _Better than you than that oaf_. And some… some other things.” She trembles, remembering how furious and hurt she’d been. In only a few sentences Morrigan cut her deep and brought her to her knees, and it was all made so much worse because Solona had, up until that night Morrigan had approached her about the ritual, considered her a friend.

But Morrigan had turned on her so fast, and was obviously still sore about the opportunity denied to her. Solona could only come to the conclusion that the entire friendship had been a lie.

It takes her a moment to realise that Alistair is hugging her, and she slowly relaxes her tense posture, returning the gesture. “She was just so hateful, Alistair,” she says softly. “You were dead and she was so… _pleased_ about it. And when she said I had no one else to blame for my suffering, I was angry because she was right. And I know, _I know_ , turning her down was the right decision but…”

“I know,” Alistair’s words are a sigh. His lips drift across her forehead. “The right decision for Ferelden and Thedas. Not for us, but what else can you expect from an organisation that literally has sacrifice as their motto?” He pulls back from her slightly, letting his hands run down from her shoulders to grasp her hands. “I know it can’t have been easy to speak to her. You two were friends once, and I’m sorry for what she said.”

Solona shakes her head. “She sought my friendship only because of what she wanted from me,” Solona responds coldly. She reconsiders what she just said. “Or what she wanted from you, I suppose. She thought she could get it through me.”

“You know,” Alistair looks thoughtful, “I don’t think that’s true. Maybe at first, but I’d bet that you’re the only friend she’s ever had.”

Solona bristles, unwilling to admit that, even now, part of the reason why what Morrigan had asked and done afterwards bothered her so much was because she had considered Morrigan someone she could trust. "Why are we even talking about Morrigan?” She asks him flatly, wanting to be done with the conversation.

Alistair pauses, taking in her anger. “Because I’m the idiot who brought her up,” he finally says, a little ruefully.

It makes Solona sigh. “You’re not an idiot and you know it.”

He shrugs. “Still, we don’t get to be alone that often. I should have picked my moment better. Perhaps tomorrow, when we see the dragon I can bring it up again? That way you have a direction for your anger.”

She smiles weakly at him, her anger giving way to sadness. “Alistair.” She opens and closes her mouth, words sticking her in throat.

“Come on,” he says softly, holding onto one of her hands as he tugs her over to the bed. He pulls back the blanket and Solona obediently clambers in, watching as he blows out the remainder of the candles, plunging the room into dimness. When he slips into the bed beside her, she immediately reaches out for him, curling herself around him, listening to his breathing, enjoying the solid feel of him against her – everything that reassured her that he was here.

“It’s still difficult to let go of the grief,” she finally says. The grief was a terrible thing. It wasn’t linear; years later and she’d wake up gasping for breath from a nightmare that made her feel like she’d just lost him that day, like everything inside her had been ripped out, set on fire, and then pushed back under her skin.

She lost him over and over again in her mind, each time was another gut punch, bruising her further.

She would never be the same person she was, before, even though he’s with her again now, because the grief never healed. The grief could never heal, perhaps partly because she wouldn’t let it. Instead it just festered, an infection that poisoned every aspect of her.

The infection has healed, the wound has scabbed. But she’s not sure if it will ever heal, even though it should. She can’t pretend it hasn’t fundamentally changed her, no more than Alistair can. They’ve borne their difficulties differently, but they’re both marked and scarred from it. Even now, when he’s here in her arms all she can see is that moment, that terrible moment he took the final blow and his life was extinguished.

It will haunt her for the rest of her life.

Alistair is silent for a long time after she speaks. “I’m not sure it’s something that you can ever really let go of,” he finally says, echoing her thoughts. “I feel like I don’t deserve to complain – I’ve somehow got you back, and you still love me, how can I complain? It’s more than anyone else gets, surely? A second chance.” He swallows heavily, and she presses her face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat – no better reminder that he’s alive. “But I can’t forget.”

Neither of them could.

“But,” he continues, his voice growing stronger. “That’s why we’re going to made this work. Because we both know what the alternative is like to live with.”

She turns her head slightly to kiss his throat, and he adjusts himself so she has better access. Splaying her hands across his chest she works her way up to his mouth, kissing him sweetly before drawing away enough to see his face. He holds her tight and they both still, watching each other.

“Marry me, Solona.”

Solona starts in surprise, pulling back from him. He follows her, looking a little abashed as he draws her into his arms again, pulling them so that they’re both sitting upright in the bed.

She's staring at him, uncertain. “Alistair, you… you can’t.”

“Oh believe me, I can.” He’s decisive, and her reaction doesn’t bother him because he knows why she’s surprised. They’ve spoken about marriage more than once since they’ve been reunited, and he’d been the one to say they should wait. “I didn’t mean to just spring this on you, I was going to actually _ask_ you after you cure me, but… me wanting to marry you isn’t dependant on any of that and I want you to know that I’m serious about you. And I’m bringing it up at the Landsmeet to settle the issue, in our favour.” He pauses. “Maker’s breath, I’m sorry.”

“Why?” A smile has been spreading across her face as he was speaking but now it fades.

Alistair grimaces. “I wanted to make it romantic, you know. And instead I’m talking about duty and we’re in a damp keep in the middle of Crestwood. It’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

Solona cups his cheek tenderly. “Alistair, I don’t mind. I don’t need all that. I just need you.”

“See, that’s the kind of thing I wanted to be saying.” He sighs and then starts rearranging them, pulling Solona closer to him so her legs wrap around his hips. His arms curl around her waist, while Solona lets hers dangle around his shoulders. This Keep in Crestwood might not be the most romantic place, but it’s warm and quiet at this late hour, and in the darkness to Solona it feels like they’re the only two people in Thedas.

She presses a warm kiss to his mouth, and he sighs again. He pulls back far enough so he can speak. “I missed you beyond belief every day I was without you. And now that you’re back, I love you even more than I ever thought would be possible. I don’t want to have to lie or downplay what you are to me. I want you to be my wife and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want you to be the mother of my children. Will you marry me, Solona Amell?”

Her eyes fill with tears, but she’s smiling again. “Of course I will.” Even as she’s speaking she’s leaning into him again for a kiss, and she laughs out loud when Alistair pushes her back down onto the bed, his hands dragging off the chemise she’s wearing. As he kisses her way down her body, her laugh turns breathless, and then turns into a moan as they both lose themselves in each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just *clenches fist* love Dorian.


	7. Chapter 7

Dragon slaying is a dangerous business. And while it might also be slightly exhilarating, Solona will be happy if she never has to do this again.

The Inquisitor and her companions are formidable in battle, and being bolstered by Solona, Leliana and Alistair only makes them more so. Still, with four mages, they have to co-ordinate themselves well, and they regard the dragon from a distance. It’s in the ruins to the south of Crestwood village, resting.

Solona listens to Alistair and the Inquisitor discuss their tactics, keeping an eye on the unmoving dragon. It’s a blustery day, with fast moving clouds casting shadows as they cross the sun.

They leave the equipment they brought to administer the Cure after the fight tucked away at a safe distance, and then they spread out as planned. There’s a moment of tense expectation, and then the battle begins.

Cassandra rushes the dragon, closely followed by Alistair.

The sight of him running towards the dragon, sword and shield held steady, makes Solona’s heart leap into her mouth with fear. For a split second it’s overlaid with the last time she saw him do this, and they’re back on top of Fort Drakon, and he’s wearing the silver and blue of the Wardens.

All she can do is shake it off as best she can; freezing up now could get them all killed. But as she draws her mana and falls into her fighting stance, it’s easy to slip back into the battle mindset. A few months of palace life can’t erase years of combat.

The dragon, roused from her slumber, rises to her feet and lets out a roar that rumbles the ground and leaves Solona’s ears ringing. The large head snaps at Cassandra, revealing wicked teeth. She gets a swipe to the face from Cassandra’s sword for her trouble, and then lets out a shriek so loud Solona thinks they must be able to hear it in Orlais. On the other side of the dragon is Alistair, and spread out around them are the mages, all casting their spells, and Leliana, who’s firing on the dragon with arrows aimed with deadly precision, piercing it’s thick hide.

Unsurprisingly, the dragon is furious. And she is _vicious_ ; biting and clawing and swiping. She attacks with lightning that’s almost impossible to dodge and it leaves Solona stunned and aching, making it painful to even draw breath. Cassandra and Alistair are both drawing most of the dragon’s ire, carefully attacking and keeping her attention. Solas, she knows, is keeping their barriers refreshed – she can sense his magic rippling over them.

It’s a long battle, as any with a dragon always is, but their onslaught is relentless and they eventually begin to wear her down. She’s grievously wounded, bleeding from any number of wounds, and one of her front legs is all but useless. When she rears up on her back legs and begins beating her wings, the Inquisitor shouts for them to hold onto something. The wind picks up, quickly and powerfully, and Solona sees both Cassandra and Alistair stumble against the vortex the dragon is creating.

It knocks her to the ground too, and she’s dragged along the ground, being drawn closer and closer to those deadly claws. Desperately, Solona reaches out to try and grab handfuls of the earth with her free hand, to grab _anything_ she might anchor herself to. But it hardly slows her down, and she sees she isn’t the only in this predicament, with Solas also being pulled towards the dragon. The other three seem to be far enough out to be safe, but she’s getting so disorientated, it’s hard to tell for sure.

All around her is the howling wind, painful against her face. Debris and earth is also being dragged along with her, and above it all is the shriek of the dragon. Distantly, she can hear the shouts of her companions, but it’s difficult to make out just who it is or what they’re saying, and she frantically tries to gain a hold on something as she tumbles along at a sickening and painful speed.

Quite suddenly, she’s under the dragon, who is still up on her back legs. Almost in slow motion, Solona sees her begin to drop to the ground, with those heavy claws heading straight for her. The vortex and beating wings have stopped now, so she’s now longer tumbling out of control. But she’s still disorientated, and rolls away in she hopes is a safe direction.

She only barely escapes being crushed. The heavy landing of the dragon beside her rattles her down to her bones, and she’s left lying between the dragon’s legs, staring up at her underbelly.

Solona wastes no time, grateful she’s managed to hold on to her staff, and shoots powerful spikes of ice that rip into the skin. The dragon again roars and and brings it’s good front leg around to swipe at the annoying mage lying under her.

Frantically, Solona scrambles backwards, just missing the claws by a hair’s breadth, and is relieved when someone hauls her to her feet, helping her take some steps out of the immediate area of the dragon.

It’s Alistair, of course, and they share a quick glance, each checking that the other is okay, before he runs forward again, aiming for the spot that Solona has just attacked. She sees his sword slice through the dragon’s belly, deeper than her magic had pierced. The dragon stumbles, and Alistair gets out from under it just in time before it falls.

Her roar is weaker now, and Solona realises that she’s nearly dead.

Knowing that the others will be easily able to finish the dragon, she backtracks through the ruins to grab the supplies they’d stashed before the battle. She doesn’t stop to take a breath or even think about the minor injuries she’s picked up during the fight, too focused on doing what they’ve come here to do. Grabbing everything, she makes her way back, picking out the locations of everyone else, relieved to see they’re all still standing. It’s as she’s walking back to them that the dragon finally falls, her death rattle one final shriek that splits the air. And then it is over, and a stillness falls over the area.

Dorian is by her side seconds alter, relieving her of some of the weight of the bags.

“Nicely done,” he says to her. “Although I suppose I should expect no less of the Hero of Ferelden.”

Solona tries to smile, but her mind is too focused on the next task to even think about pleasantries. Despite that, she can’t help but notice that Dorian still looks remarkably put together, while she’s covered in dirt and dragon’s blood.

Cassandra and Alistair are still standing by the dead dragon and catching their breath when Dorian and Solona arrive and get to work. She’s gone over this with Dorian extensively – she knows he’s more than capable. He did this with her before, after all, and helped develop the magic. Even now, this Dorian who didn’t know any of that, grasped it all with a quickness that impressed. Both the Inquisitor and Solas had offered help and while she’d gone over the process with them, they likely wouldn’t be needed – too many cooks in the kitchen, and all that. But it was good to know they were there as support, if needed.

Dorian lights a fire and gets to mixing the reagents, while Solona gets to work with a large vial and a dagger, filling it with blood from the dragon. It doesn’t take long to fill, and she places it by Dorian before approaching Alistair with another vial and a lancet. He’s been standing by, watching her and Dorian with rapt attention, alongside Cassandra and Leliana.

Alistair’s armour is drenched in dragon’s blood. He’s removed his helmet, and Solona takes stock of him. When she takes his hand, it’s steady.

It’s also filthy, so she pulls out her flask of water, wetting the skin and cleaning it as best she can. She’s focusing on each little step with fierce concentration, ignoring the murmuring talk of the others as they gather around. Dorian appears by her side, handing her a cloth to wipe Alistair’s hand, and she murmurs her thanks.

When she brings the lancet to his hand, Alistair doesn’t flinch. He just remains steady. Dorian is holding the vial, ready to the collect the blood.

She’s the one who hesitates, simply just staring at the hand she’s holding, a hand that’s held her and loved her and supported her, feeling a stab of revulsion at herself for what she’s about to do.

Alistair gently touches her elbow with his free hand, and she wishes he wasn’t armoured.

“It will work, Solona,” he whispers. She looks up at him. His hair is plastered to his head from sweat, and there are smudges of dirt and blood on his face. He looks tired. But he’s smiling at her so gently. He trusts her.

So she takes a deep breath, rallying herself. “It will work,” she repeats his words firmly and pierces his skin. She keeps hold of his hand as the blood trickles into the vial. Their eyes remain locked the entire time.

By their side, Dorian is quiet until he exclaims, “There! That should be enough. Now it’s time for the real magic.”

He returns to the fire, while Solona runs a thumb over Alistair’s hand, healing the cut.

“Do you have any injuries?” She asks softly.

He shakes his head. “Bruised mostly.” He gives a short laugh. “I feel like I am one giant bruise.”

She runs an eye over him, and pulls him over towards the fire. “Sit down.” Alistair does so, resting his back against what remans of the wall of a ruined building. He smiles slightly at Solona’s order, and dutifully drinks the potion she hands him, allowing her to unbuckle and remove most of his heavy armour.

The others settle around them now that they’ve taken stock of injuries, letting Solona and Dorian do their work in the shadow of this dead dragon. The sun is still in the sky, but there are angry dark clouds in the distance, and already the wind has picked up. The fine weather won’t remain much longer.

Solona and Dorian work quickly, muttering over the fire and their herbs and the exact mixture of blood they should be using.

She thinks that they probably look like the very worst kinds of apostates that people fear.

Despite her earlier hesitance, she moves quickly now. This is the second time she’s done this – mixed the blood, added the herbs, heated gently, casting spells at every step. Dorian is efficient, his magic neat but powerful, and while it takes some time to mix it to her satisfaction, she realises that they’ve done it quicker than before. She holds the vial containing what will be the Cure, inspecting it, and takes another deep breath.

She places it on the ground, and she and Dorian stand either side of it, staves ready.

Their eyes meet and he nods.

They begin the spell, directing their energy from the spells directly to the vial, which seems to shake on the ground. Inside, the mix of blood begins to boil and it lightens from a murky red-black colour to a lighter colour, almost that of fresh blood. The magic builds and builds as the energy pours into the vial, both Solona and Dorian in deep concentration.

Nobody around them moves, watching with bated breath, until there is a flash and a pop, and the crackle of magic in the air dissipates.

Solona kneels down and gingerly touches the vial. She can feel the magic thrumming through it. It feels the same way hers did before she took it, and it gives he some reassurance.

“It worked,” she murmurs to Dorian.

“Of course it did,” he replies easily, and for a second she’s transported back to the Hinterlands after they’d just done the exact same thing and said these exact words to each other.

She blinks away the memory and takes the vial, before grabbing a fortifying potion and approaching Alistair. She sits in front of him, and hands him the potion, watching him the entire time he drinks it.

“Are you ready?” She asks him, quietly. Their companions are all silent, watching them, knowing well what the stakes of this are.

He wraps his hands around hers, the vial between them. “I am.” Gently he takes it from her hands as he leans forward to press a kiss on her lips.

There are no words left to say, and Solona watches him drink this terrible concoction. To Alistair’s credit, he doesn’t flinch – and she knows exactly how bad it tastes. As he drinks, she presses a hand to his chest, casting the final part of the spell; that would use this purified blood to cleanse the rest of his body of the taint. Dorian had done this for her, of course, and afterwards he’d explained to her every detail of what he’d done and how it had felt.

She’s experiencing it now. The dragon’s blood is powerful and she can sense it in him through the spell. Unfortunately for Alistair, she knows it’s deeply unpleasant to experience, and she tries to hold him steady as he jerks. Leliana appears at her shoulder and together they lower him to his side, and Leliana sits with Alistair’s head in her lap as Solona continues her spell.

She tries to ignore his shuddering body and gasps of pain, knowing she has to see this spell through. The guilt is pricking at her though, and it’s a struggle to ignore it and not let it distract her.

But soon she’s finished, and she withdraws her magic, feeling like the worst person in the world. She keeps her hand on Alistair’s chest. Now all they do is wait and see if they’ve done enough.

It's quiet around her. Everything feels hushed. She’s distantly aware of Dorian tidying up behind her, and knows she should probably help, but she can’t take her eyes off Alistair.

He’s unconscious, and his face is pinched in pain. It what she expects, but it’s still doesn’t make it easier to watch. He’s still, at least, and his pulse is strong.

Leliana grabs one of her hands and squeezes. “You have done it.”

“We don’t know that yet, Leliana.” She smooths her hands over Alistair’s shoulders, his hair, his face. She’s done all she can but she won’t know if it’s worked until he wakes up. If he wakes up.

Lavellan appears at her side. “I’ve never seen magic like that before. How long do you think he’ll be unconscious?”

“For me, it was a few hours.” They had discussed returning to the keep to take the Cure, but Solona insisted on doing exactly what she had done when she’d taken it – blood straight from the dragon, without waiting. She didn’t know if it would make a difference – it could most likely be fine – but she wasn’t going to test it out on Alistair.

“We’ll rest for a time, and then we should be able to carry him to a cottage not far off if you don’t want to make the journey to the Keep. We helped the woman who lived there, and I suspect she won’t mind helping us.”

“Good,” Solona whispers, dragging her eyes away from Alistair to look up at the Inquisitor. “Thank you, Inquisitor, for your help.”

The elf waves away her thanks with a small smile, and returns to the others by the fire, leaving Solona and Leliana to their vigil.

\---

 They make their way to the cottage mentioned by the Inquisitor slowly, Cassandra carrying Alistair the whole way. Solona is impressed with the woman’s stamina. It hadn’t been that long since she’d been fighting a dragon, after all.

“It is strange to have a king in my arms,” Cassandra confesses to Solona by her side, and despite her anxiety over Alistair, it makes her smile.

Lavellan was correct when she said the woman living here would help them. She introduces herself as Judith, and immediately motions for Cassandra to place Alistair on the bed, quickly finding blankets and stoking the fire in her small bedroom.

“It’s the least I can do for you after everything you’ve done.” She runs an eye over Alistair. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, thank you,” Solona replies, kneeling beside the bed and brushing Alistair’s hair out of his face. “We just need to wait for him to wake up.”

And so they do, some in the bedroom with Solona, while others are in the other room, speaking with Judith. Someone brings a stool over so Solona can sit by Alistair in more comfort.

Judith offers them food, which they refuse. She can hardly have enough to feed so many unexpected guests.

But when night draws in, and Alistair shows no signs of waking, they need to make a decision, and Solona’s unease is clear to everyone. This place is too small for all of them, and no matter Judith’s hospitality, there’s no point in them all remaining.

Solona lets the hushed discussion go on in the other room, hardly aware of it as she hunches over the bed, fear in her heart.

It’s been hours since he’d taken the Cure. He should be awake by now.

She can’t stop herself from constantly touching him, checking his pulse, making sure he’s still alive. He’s warm, but not feverish. His breathing is fine, his heartbeat steady. Even the pinched pained look has left his face, but he has an ashen cast to his skin that makes him look very ill. Aside from that, he just seems to be sleeping. Solas also checks with his own magic, but there’s little either of them can do but continue to wait.

_He should be awake by now._

Solona tries not to think of how she’d held Alistair’s cooling body after he’d slain the Archdemon.

She curls into herself, trying to control her breathing and her racing thoughts. But she can’t stop the freezing fear that’s winding into every part of her at the growing possibility that Alistair won’t wake up.

A light hand on her shoulder makes her startle.

Leliana murmurs an apology for surprising her. From her look, Solona realises they’ve been trying to get her attention for a while.

“We’re going to return to the keep for the night – there isn’t enough room for us all here, but we will return in the morning.” Solona nods absently. “Dorian has offered to stay with you.”

She opens her mouth to reject this but Dorian, who has followed Leliana into the bedroom along with Judith, is quicker. “You aren’t getting rid of me. I’m seeing this through.”

Solona realises she doesn’t have the strength to argue. Ideally she’d like to just be left alone with Alistair, but these people are helping her. So she simply nods again.

“And do eat something,” Leliana says sharply.

“Don’t worry,” says Judith. “I’ll look after her.”

“Thank you, Judith, we’ll make sure you are reimbursed for your assistance.” The woman dismisses Leliana’s words, but Solona knows Leliana will make sure Judith is taken care of. “Take care, Solona. We we be back early in the morning.” With a final glance at Alistair and a comforting squeeze of Solona’s shoulder, Leliana departs with the rest.

The cottage falls quiet. Solona can hear Dorian and Judith speaking quietly in the other room. At some point – she had no idea how long she’s been sitting here – Judith comes in with a bowl of soul and pushes it into her hands.

“Eat,” she says firmly, and then sits on the end of the bed, her gaze switching between Solona and Alistair. “You should keep your strength up.”

Solona spoons the soup into her mouth, hardly even tasting it, struggling to swallow, just wanting it gone so this woman will leave her alone again. It’s not that she’s ungrateful, she just can’t spare any thought for anything else right now but the man in front of her. Moments pass in silence.

“Solona, is it?” Judith asks easily, and Solona simply nods in reply. “A pretty name, not one I’ve heard before, except for the Hero. Who we hear is alive, after all these years.”

Something in her voice catches Solona’s attention and her eyes slide towards the woman who is now looking at the man on her bed.

“Your friend called him Alistair?” Judith’s eyes are sharp. “Like the king?”

Dorian appears at the door, overhearing the conversation, but neither of the women acknowledge him.

Solona lowers her bowl to rest in her lap. “Yes. Like the king.” She raises her chin at Judith, wondering what she’s going to do.

But the woman just raises her eyebrows and says, “He’s more handsome than they say.” Then she stands up, and takes Solona’s bowl from her before walking towards the door.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” Dorian asks.

“I’m curious but I’m not one for sticking my nose into other’s business,” Judith’s words are accompanied by a shrug. “I hope he pulls through, whatever it is.” She passes by Dorian, back out into the other room. Dorian just exchanges a look with Solona before he also leaves, shutting the door behind him. Once again she can hear the soft murmur of their voices, and she wonders if Dorian is telling Judith why she has an unconscious king in her home.

Solona doesn’t care. All she wants is for Alistair to open his eyes.

\---

 It’s an endless night for her. After some time, the voices outside cease, and she can’t even spare a thought for where they might be sleeping – after all, Alistair is in the only bed. Outside, the wind has picked up again, and she can hear sheets of rain hammering against the cottage.

She doesn’t let herself cry. She doesn’t even let herself move from her position curled up on a hard stool with her arms wrapped around herself. She just listens to the soft sound of Alistair’s breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest even in the growing darkness of the room, matching her breathing to his. Just like her, he doesn’t move, but she doesn’t know if this is a good or a bad thing. There’s just _nothing_ happening and she fears, Maker does she fear, that she’s done something awful to him, that she’s lost him.

She doesn’t remember finally slumping forward, her head resting on the bed beside Alistair’s arm, and passing out in exhaustion.

\---

 She dreams, of course, like she always does. But the Fade twists around her, and a dreamer like this – a mage full of fear and terror – is a beacon to demons and spirits but she ignores them all, especially the ones who form themselves to look like Alistair.

She doesn’t even want to look at them, so she runs.

She runs through streets that are familiar and wrong, away from the promises and reassurances.

_I can help you. I can make him better. And then I can make them all accept you as his queen._

Their insidious whispers are too tempting. She cannot listen. She cannot now, after all these years, fall to treacherous promises from demons.

She’s in Denerim, in Alistair’s room. He reaches out, curling a hand around her neck, smiling as his thumb presses against her pulse point.

The smile is too cold, the eyes are too sharp with an unsettling glint to them. It’s wrong, it’s not Alistair.

_But I can help him_ , it whispers, directly into her mind.

She pulls away and turns and she’s in the Deep Roads, and there’s darkspawn everywhere. Out of instinct, she freezes one that’s rushing her and she looks down, to see herself in her Grey Warden uniform, holding her staff. The putrid smell of the Deep Roads hits her – stale air and darkspawn and death.

She turns her head and sees Alistair, also in his Grey Warden armour. But he’s being swarmed by darkspawn, and they pull him to the ground.

Immediately Solona darts forward to fight them off, firing off spells and swiping her staff, and when she succeeds, all that’s left is Alistair on the ground, bleeding out from any number of gruesome wounds.

She drops beside him, and she feels someone at her shoulder. But she doesn’t look, instead trying to catch her breath and heal Alistair.

He’s crying out to her, desperate. His voice gurgles, like he’s choking on blood.

“Please Solona! They can help!”

Solona stills, and something grabs her shoulder, too tightly. Something with claws that dig into her. Immediately she shoves herself away from it, throwing out a haphazard spell. Falling back on the ground, she shuts her eyes, willing it all to disappear.

When she can no longer smell the heavy scent of the Deep Roads, she opens her eyes again, and finds herself back in the cottage in Crestwood, wearing the still bloodied armour she’d fought in earlier that day, hunched over Alistair’s form.

She doesn’t know if this is reality or a dream.

It’s still night. The room seems darker than before – the fire has gone out completely. For a moment everything remains still, until Alistair begins to thrash about on the bed, his body seizing, and she grabs his arms, hoping to soothe him. But he starts coughing, a deep, hacking cough. Solona scrambles to turn him on his side so that he doesn’t choke.

He’s coughing up blood. There’s so much blood, and it just isn’t stopping.

Desperately, Solona tries to search with her magic for the source of it so she can heal it. She can _heal_ this. She has to be able to heal this. But she can’t find it, she can’t understand where this blood is coming from, and he’s still coughing up more, and her hands are covered in blood and shaking uncontrollably. She can’t even get her throat unstuck to call for help.

Alistair’s eyes open, but instead of his warm steady gaze, his eyes are entirely white. No iris, no pupil. Just a terrifying whiteness that’s too bright in the dark room and he jolts again, more blood coming out of his mouth, splattering across her. She sobs loudly, panic making her clumsy.

She cannot watch him die again. She can’t let this happen.

A hand touches her shoulder, making her start, but it’s only Leliana again, like before, earlier that day when she’d helped.

“I can help,” she says. “Let me help.” 

Solona tries to speak again but can’t. She’s still leaning over Alistair’s thrashing body, heaving with sobs, shaking with fear. Finally she turns to Leliana, to say the words, “ _please help_ ” but they catch in her throat.

Because it’s wrong. It’s not Leliana.

She shuts her eyes, trying to find some kind of control inside herself.

_A demon._

“No.”

Her voice is brittle but it’s enough.

She opens her eyes and Leliana is gone. The room is gone, disappeared into the Fade.

Solona looks up into the murky green sky of the Fade and sees the Black City.

There’s a rising power and noise around her, with the demon who took on Leliana’s form displeased with her refusal.

Let it be displeased. She simply bows her head, willing herself to wake up. But in front of her, Alistair is still thrashing and coughing and she sobs, knowing it’s not him but still wanting nothing more than to go to him.

She’s shaking, and she can’t stop.

The demon screams, and she thinks she does too.

\---

 Solona opens her eyes, the darkness receding.

Her face is pressed into the mattress of the bed. Her back is aching from sitting in such an awkward position all night. In fact, her whole body is aching, feeling the after effects of yesterday’s battle.

Sunlight is streaming in through the small window, casting a warm glow to the room. The morning is peaceful, a welcome contrast to her nightmare. The rain has stopped and the wind has died down. And there’s a hand resting in her hair, a thumb gently moving back and forth, almost infinitesimal movements, but still there.

She raises her head, and the hand falls back to the mattress.

Alistair is awake, staring at her. Her breath catches at the sight of his smile, weak but warm. Her eyes dart across his face and she leans forward, pain forgotten, to place a hand on his chest to feel his steady heartbeat. He looks unwell, which is not unexpected. His skin still has that sickly pallor and there are dark shadows under his eyes. He’s still lying on his back, not having moved since he’d been placed there last night. She guesses he’s weak – she had been, too.

With an obvious effort, Alistair places his hand over hers, which is still resting on his chest. “You did it, Solona.” His voice is hardly more than a whisper, but it’s enough for the tears gathering in her eyes to spill over. Noticing this, he tries to say something else, but she shushes him by lightly kissing him.

Alistair’s eyes flutter closed, and she can see he’s struggling to stay awake.

“Rest, Alistair,” she says softly to him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He gives an almost imperceptible nod, and gives up the fight to stay awake.

Solona stays perfectly still for some time, despite her awkward position, until her back begins to cramp and she finally stands up, stretching out the knots in her back.

She’s trying to convince herself she’s awake, and to let go of that nagging fear that she is still in the Fade, and that this pleasant dream will soon turn into another nightmare. She touches his face, lightly, as if to find reassurance.

Her hands are shaking, and she drops back onto the stool.

She isn’t dreaming.

Alistair’s alive. He’s cured. He’ll recover. It hits her all at once, overwhelming her, and she weeps into her hands, trying to be quiet. When she hears the door open, she takes a shuddering breath and wipes at her eyes.

Dorian rushes in, looking alarmed. “Is he…?” Her weeping clearly wasn’t as quiet as she’d thought.

She shakes her head, still crying, half laughing. “He woke up,” she manages to get out. “We did it.”

He looks at her like he’s questioning her intellect as he steps over to check Alistair himself. She can see the tension leave him as he realises that the king is very much alive.

Solona hiccups, trying to catch her breath.

“Come,” says Dorian, encouraging her to stand with his hand on her arm. “You need to eat.”

She wants to protest, but Judith is also there, less gentle and more firm than Dorian in manhandling her. She, too, checks Alistair and nods, satisfied. Together they bring her into the larger room of the cabin, leaving the door to the bedroom open and sit her in a place in which she can still see him.

Judith hands her a napkin and places a mug of hot, steaming in tea in front of her. There are some bread rolls and cheese on the table in front of her, and despite everything, Solona’s stomach rumbles.

It takes her some time to get herself under control before she tells them what happened. That he woke up and that he is weak but she’s hopeful he will recover. That they did it.

Not long after, the Inquisitor arrives, with plenty of provisions and a wagon to transport Alistair back to Caer Bronach. Solona repeats what happened and it’s all she can do not to start crying again when Leliana hugs her. She doesn’t tell them of her night terrors, unwilling to linger on them herself.

\---

Alistair doesn’t wake again until a few hours after they’ve settling him in the Keep. This time he is a little more alert, and she manages to feed him some soup before he passes out again.

Solona writes to Eamon, informing of what’s transpired and tells him the king will be in touch very soon.

The third time Alistair wakes, he needs to use the privy, and he’s alert enough to be grumpy about the fact that he needs help. He falls back into the bed, exhausted even by this small movement.

The Inquisitor remains, although she’s busy, doing what she’s become famous for – closing rifts and helping people. She spends a lot of time talking to people in the keep, and visits Solona and Alistair when she can – as do the other Inquisition members, all pleased by their success.

Days slip by, and Alistair’s recovery is slow, but ongoing. It’s on the fourth day after killing the dragon that he’s truly alert, sitting up in bed and feeding himself. He still grumbles at the men who are assisting him with his personal needs, but that look of dead exhaustion has left him, although he’s still not up for much conversation.

Each night, Solona slips into the bed beside him and wakes up to find him curled around her like a large cat.

Eight days after killing the dragon, she wakes up to him placing kisses across her face: her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. She smiles, keeping her eyes closed, and then he kisses her lips, and she can feel his smile too.

His strength returns in leaps and bounds after that, and he’s writing to Eamon and planning the trip back to Denerim, taking walks around the Keep to regain his strength. His colour brightens and the dark shadows under his eyes lessen. He begins to look healthier than he did when Solona first returned.

He grateful to the Inquisition for their help, but Solona… he looks at her with so much reverence.

On their final night at Caer Bronach, they sit up on the battlements, hidden away from everyone, looking up at the stars.

“I never realised…” Alistair begins and then stops. “I never realised how much the Taint… affected everything. It was like a constant buzz I’d learned to tune out.” He shakes his head in wonder. “I still can’t believe it.”

She presses herself to him. “I know. You live with it so long you forget it’s not supposed to be a part of you.”

He turns to her, taking her face between her hands with such gentleness it makes her heart fill. “I can never thank you enough for this,” he whispers, raw emotion making his voice hoarse. “You are incredible.”

She can’t help but laugh, her cheeks warming under his hands. “I’m just a woman, Alistair.”

“The _best_ woman,” he mutters and tries to kiss her, but she leans back slightly, needing to make her point.

“You don’t need to thank me. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything.”

“But I do–”

“You don’t. I love you and I want to stay with you, so: curing you is selfish. So you shouldn’t be thanking me.”

Alistair shakes his head. “Oh, I’ll thank you, I just won’t _say_ I’m thanking you.” This time, when he leans in for a light kiss, she lets him. “Every night, in bed, I’ll thank you.” His hand travels down her back to squeeze her backside.

“Alistair!” She laughs, surprised, and he kisses her again. He’s certainly much more energetic tonight, but she knows she really shouldn’t be tiring him out before they have to travel in the morning. They have sturdy horses, and Inquisition guards, and it should be a quiet trip. But she knows it’ll wear him out.

It’s also getting cold, so she disentangles herself enough to begin leading him back to their room.

“Are you looking forward to going back to Denerim?” She asks.

“I am, actually. It was nice to get away – dragon killing and so on aside. I should try do it more often if things ever settle down. Perhaps visit Redcliffe…” They slowly walk in silence for a few minutes, nodding to a guard who salutes them.

When they reach their room, Solona is pleased to find it warm and welcoming, and casts off her cloak before standing in front of the large fireplace to warm up. Alistair does the same.

“What about me?”

She frowns at his question. “What about me?”

“Are you looking forward to going back to Denerim?”

She shrugs but doesn’t answer. She just wraps her arms around his waist, leaning her head against him. He does the same, hugging her back, warming them both up.

But Alistair’s not to be distracted, and takes her silence as a negative answer. He asks her, with some trepidation, “Is it that bad for you there?”

“No.” Solona sighs. “It’s really not. It just doesn’t feel like a home yet, I suppose.”

“I hope that it will in time.” Alistair’s voice is soft. “I’ll do what I can to help.”

She nods against him – all she can do is give it time.

After a moment of silence Alistair speaks again. “I told Eamon I’d asked you to marry me. With the Landsmeet coming up, I thought it was best so he can prepare, but I daresay he’s not happy. I also wrote to those nobles I know I can trust –” he sees her face “– there are a few of them!” 

“And you still think you can convince them?” She’s half afraid to ask, in case he says no, but it’s Alistair, so of course he doesn’t. He’s confident when he replies that he’s sure he can.

But still, she hesitates. “You’re _sure_?” she whispers. “You’re sure I’m worth it?” It’s not the first time she’s asked him, but he’s never dismissed the question or gotten irritated at her for asking.

His gaze is the one she’s used to – full of love, devotion, warmth. But now there’s steel in there too. “You’re worth _everything_ ,” he whispers.

And she wants to argue that she isn’t – she isn’t worth the stability of his kingdom or crown. But she can’t. She can’t argue in the face of his confidence. He’s fierce in his conviction, kissing her with the passion to back up his words, and so she just accepts it. She places her future in his hands, much like he did with her and the Cure.

She’ll trust him to bring them through it.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s with difficulty that Solona says farewell to Leliana and the other Inquisition members. She feels like she’s been in a bubble at Caer Bronach, overseeing Alistair’s recovery. It’s been almost too easy to forget the responsibilities he has to return to. Caer Bronach is run well by Charter, who easily smoothes over any conflict arising from the presence of the king in a keep run by the Inquisition but that is still technically his. But Solona thinks they’ll be glad once Alistair has left.

Leliana hugs her fiercely. “You’re going to keep in better touch with me this time,” she says with a wink, and Solona swallows back a wave of emotion. She knows that Leliana has stayed here so long only for her sake – Alistair has long since been out of danger. There’s probably countless situations that need her attention and they’re probably missing her at Skyhold.

Solona is so grateful she has this second chance not just with Alistair, but with Leliana. Even though she very much intends to keep in touch this time, it’s still difficult to say goodbye. 

The Inquisitor promises to keep them abreast of their attempts to decipher the amulet, and Solona wonders if they’ll get anywhere with it.

She’s oddly glad, in a sense, for it to be taken so far away from her.

\---

 The journey back to Denerim is uneventful, and almost like a holiday for both of them. Alistair refused Inquisition guards and a carriage, so they return as they left – on horseback and sharing a tent. The days are spent at a gentle pace, and their nights are spent curled up together on a bedroll, and the whole time they make plans for their future, a future which now stretches long and hopeful before them.

The fine weather holds and it’s not long before they’re nearing the city, and they both pull their hoods up.

They re-enter the palace as unobtrusively as they left it. To her surprise, Solona finds she is relieved to be back – but perhaps that’s just the knowledge that she’ll be able to have a hot bath later and sleep in a comfortable bed.

They’ve just left their horses in the stable and taking one of the lesser used entrances into the palace when Eamon finds them. Obviously they hadn’t been as secretive as they’d thought.

He looks like he’s aged considerably in the time they’ve been gone. 

“Alistair!” Eamon’s voice is the most emotional Solona has ever heard it. Even Alistair looks surprised when Eamon embraces him. Alistair pats him awkwardly on the back as he shoots Solona a perplexed look over Eamon’s shoulder.

But Eamon soon recovers, and draws back, looking vaguely embarrassed.

“I apologise, your Majesty,” he says gravely. “I have been… concerned, despite your letters. Sometimes you tend to downplay the seriousness of situations.”

“And I apologise for making you worry, Eamon, but I am well. Better than well.” Alistair smiles at Solona. “She did it.”

“So it would appear.” Eamon peers at Alistair, probably noticing the difference in him that Solona has. Even weary from travelling, Alistair’s recovery is going well. He looks better than good, like a man in the prime of his life. Finally Eamon turns to Solona. “Thank you, Lady Amell,” he says formally. “I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but I assure you that I have Alistair’s – and the kingdom’s – best interests at heart. I am relieved to know this Warden taint won’t kill him and that we can truly plan for the future of Ferelden.”

To Solona’s surprise, he gives her a small bow.

“And as to the other matter…” Now Eamon looks more conflicted. “I will support you as best I can, but you need to understand Alistair, a mage for a queen will not be accepted.”

“Not queen,” Alistair quickly replies. “Wife, consort.” He waves a hand. “Whatever.”

“And you’re fine with that?” Eamon asks Solona.

“I told you already I’m not interested in becoming queen.” Alistair’s quick dismissal of giving her the title of queen doesn’t bother her – they’ve had enough time to talk this over. He’d call her his queen if he could, but they both know it’s likely not possible, and he needs to make it clear he isn’t pushing for it. He just wants to be able to call her his wife. “I don’t care about titles.” Eamon’s about to say something again so she just states, “My lord, I just want to be able to marry the man I love.”

He deflates slightly. “It is that simple, isn’t it.” It’s not a question. “Very well.” He nods, almost to himself. “The Landsmeet is in a few weeks, so we have some time to prepare. Now, come, you must both be tired for travelling. I’ve arranged a light meal for you, before you take your rest. And then, Alistair, I’m afraid there’s a mountain of work for you to catch up with.”

Alistair doesn’t seem to mind – he’d expected as such. He simply smiles at Solona and extends his arm. “My thanks, Eamon. My betrothed and I are starving.”

\---

 “I realised something, when I was stuck in that bed in Crestwood.” Alistair sounds serious, and it makes her open her eyes. They’re in bed. His oversized, ridiculously comfortable bed. The hangings are drawn and for the past while this evening they’ve both forgotten the outside world. She senses Alistair is about to drag it back in.

His hands are playing with her hair, but his gaze is downcast. “You’ve asked me if you’re worth it – the risk to my crown, everything, but I’ve never asked you if _I’m_ worth it.” She opens her mouth to speak, because of course he is, but Alistair rushes on. “You have to give up a lot to be married to me. You can still go home, if Dorian can get that amulet working. I don’t want you to feel like you have no options, that you _have_ to do this.”

Solona is at a loss for words, aghast that he thinks there’s a chance she’s only marrying him because she sees no other choice.

“You know they won’t let you take the title of queen, that’s a given. You won’t have any official power, but you’ll still be watched like you have. They’ll be watching to see if you’re pregnant, to make sure you’re not using any unacceptable magic, to make sure you aren’t trying claim even the tiniest scrap of power.”

“Why does it sound like you’re trying to talk me out of marrying you?” She can’t help the hurt in her voice.

Alistair groans. “I’m not. I’m really not. I’m just worried you’ll regret it. Maybe not straight away but what if after a few months or a year? And what if we can’t have children? They’ll try to demand I put you aside and I could never.” His voice hardens. “I would never.” He softens again, and takes a deep breath. “You can trust me to always be at your side, but you’ll still have to give up a lot to be with me.”

She’s strokes up and down the skin of his back. “I know. But…” Solona considers her response. Her hurt over his initial comments has left her because she understands his worries. They’ve all occurred to her already. “You have to trust me that I’ll always be by your side, too. And we’ll work through anything together.”

She thinks of how many would probably be excited at the idea of marrying a king. She knows the life is easy in many ways that she’s not likely to take for granted after so long spent on the road. But it’s not without its danger or limitations.

But they’re worth it. Alistair, uninterested in a lot of the deference and frippery that goes with royalty, has surrounded himself with like minded councillors and servants. The palace is a nice place to live – scrutiny aside, and that’s something she hopes will lessen in time. For now, she’s still a novelty, and with the exact nature of her relationship with Alistair still unknown to the public, it makes people all the more eager to watch and find out.

“I just want you to be sure.” Alistair cups her jaw, and in the dimness of the room, she can make out the earnest expression on his face. “I want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy with you. I know it won’t be easy, but Alistair, what is? Compared to the last ten years this is… it’s so much better.” She kisses him, a gentle brush of lips as a reassurance.

He doesn’t let her pull away, following her lips with his, and kissing her deeply. A hand hikes her leg over his hip.

As always, Solona responds in kind, letting him love her through his actions.

\---

 There is a shift in the air at the palace.

Alistair is kept incredibly busy in the lead up to the Landsmeet. They snatch what time together they can, but he’s still also recovering from the Cure. It takes time to adjust to not having Warden level stamina, and he’s often exhausted by dinner time, and not quite as sharp during training. But she can see him growing stronger all the time, and he’s as determined to get over this as he is to marry her.

Denerim is still filled with nobles. Some from the nearer regions have left until closer to the Landsmeet, but many of those who came to see the Inquisitor from further afar decide it’s not worth it to return home only to have to retake the journey in a matter of days.

The interest in Solona sharpens. She’s momentarily surprised by those trying to gain favour with her to get access to the king – and then she tells herself to not be so naive. People might not like her or her relationship with Alistair, but they’ll still use it to their advantage.

Alistair had warned it would happen.

So she does what they agreed upon – she smiles, is diplomatic, and promises nothing. It galls her, in a sense, to have to act like she’s unimportant, but she still needs to make it look like she’s not a threat.

She hates politics.

But during this time, she finds her purpose in Denerim outside of Alistair, and begins using her healing spells and skills in the city – often in the poorer districts and the Alienage, where such help is particularly welcome.

It’s not without risk, and Alistair wants her to take guards with her. It turns into their first fight in this second relationship of theirs. Eventually she agrees to take one guard – a female rogue who looks unobtrusive but sees everything and can kill someone with a dagger quicker than Solona can even call her magic, and who watches her back while she’s busy with spellwork.

Solona quite likes her.

She also finds unexpected allies among the nobles. They aren’t all terrible people, after all, and some of them haven’t forgotten that she’d helped them many years ago during the Blight. It’s with relief that she finds people to talk to plainly, if not completely openly, and to know they aren’t against her.

Her rooms are busy, full of those who come for healing or advice on magic – with a few wondering what to do with mage relatives who have nowhere to get in the aftermath of the rebellion. In this she can at least advise, but Solona is always impeccably careful to not use her magic in any kind of alarming way or profess any kind of radical statements, especially so close to the Landsmeet, which is rushing up on them like a fast approaching wave.

She tries to let the palace feel like home, but she knows that won’t be possible so soon to the event that might result in a decision that could ruin everything for her and Alistair.

She _really_ hate politics.

\---

 The day of the Landsmeet arrives, and it feels both soon and too quick to come. Alistair sees her off that morning with a lingering kiss, and the same confidence he’s held about this since Crestwood. He’s put in a lot of work and today will prove whether it’s been successful or not.

Solona holds onto his kiss and his confidence as the Landsmeet begins and she feels the eyes upon her.

\---

“Now – the next topic is that of his Majesty’s request to marry Lady Solona Amell.”

The Speaker says it all so dispassionately, like he’s reciting a menu and not beginning a debate vitally important to the whole country.

Still, this is it, and Solona forces herself to keep a placid expression of her face, aware of all the heads that have turned to look at her. Alistair catches her eye from where he stands on the balcony, and gives her a tiny nod. She’s standing in the middle of the gathered nobles below, but he’d sought her out as soon as he’d entered the room. There have already been a couple of topics discussed, but they were of minor importance compared to this. Now a buzzing and a tension fills the room, and many who were paying scant attention before straighten up.

It is Anora who begins the arguments. “You would have us a mage for a queen, your Majesty?” Her eyes are steely, and Solona again wonders how the last ten years have been for her here.

Her words cause a rumble among the crowd, but Alistair remains steady. “No, I do not intend to make Lady Amell queen – only my wife.”

“But that is effectively the same thing!” This splutter is from a red-faced man Solona knows is Bann Ceorlic. “A wife has access to parts of her husband that no one else does.” There’s more than one snigger to be heard somewhere in the throng of people. “They have ways of ruling, of having power, that is impossible to refuse.” His face gets more and more red as he speaks, sweat dripping down his temple.

Solona can’t help raising her eyebrows at his comments, and she’s not the only one. Beside the Bann, his wife fidgets and shifts in her spot, looking desperately uncomfortable. Even Anora is looking at him with faint disgust.

“Riiiight,” Alistair drawls, looking faintly amused. Ceorlic has just revealed more information about himself and his wife instead of getting a point against Alistair. “Do you really think me so weak, Bann Ceorlic, after ten years on this throne ruling by own own accord, that I’d be swayed by such?”

Alistair can ask the question easily because no one could answer that they thought Alistair weak, even if they didn’t like him. To say something so demonstratively false in front of the Landsmeet would destroy any credibility. The only thing standing against Alistair was his lack of heirs, and here he was, trying to fix it by proposing a marriage.

“No one thinks that, your Majesty,” Oswyn, Bann of the Dragon’s Peak speaks up. He’s the boy that Solona and Alistair had saved from Howe’s dungeon during the Blight, so long ago, and Solona knows he’s a firm supporter of the king, but that he has his reservations about her. As if guessing her thoughts, Oswyn glances at Solona briefly, before turning back to Alistair. “But it is true that a consort can still wield unofficial power. And it is also true that Lady Amell was thought dead for so long. And now here she is. Even if she were not a mage it would be suspicious.”

Alistair nods. “I understand your concern and so I will be honest with you.” He stands tall, above them all, and every eye in the room is on him. As he speaks, his voice is clear and strong. Upon his head sits his crown, the very picture of a wise, handsome king. “You all know I came to the throne as a Grey Warden. Only some of you knows what exactly that means. To be a Grey Warden, and to fight the darkspawn effectively, we go through a ritual. But it leaves our blood tainted. It makes it more difficult to conceive a child, and it kills us young. I was dying.” This simple statement causes an outbreak of hushed murmurs throughout the crowd, and Alistair raises his voice slightly. “Lady Amell left after the Blight ended to find a Cure. We didn’t know if it existed but she set out to try. It took her ten years to find it.” He falls silent, smiling at Solona. The murmurs grow louder until the Speaker shouts at everyone to quiet and Alistair continues. “It is due to Lady Amell that I’ve been cured of something that was killing me. While it can potentially help all the Wardens, we knew they wouldn’t support the endeavour, so it was best she disappeared. And there was no guarantee it would work, or that Lady Amell would even survive her journey. I did not expect to ever see her again.”

The story they’ve chosen to spin is full of partial facts, but that final part is entirely true, at least,

Arl Teagan speaks up, backing up what Alistair has said. Solona isn’t sure exactly how much he knows or if he just believes everything Alistair has just said. It’s a mostly plausible story – except for the fact that they’d given her a funeral and burned her body. But likewise no one can deny Solona is who she says she is.

There’s some further discussion, mostly on the topic of the Grey Warden taint. Some have indeed heard rumours of it, despite the Wardens desire for secrecy, but to most it sounds far fetched. But, amazingly, Solona can tell it’s made people more favourable towards her. Anyone can see the king looks healthier recently. And the suspicion against Grey Wardens is actually working in their favour – it’s easy to believe a Warden would disappear for a long time on a secret mission, although it calls for Solona to repeatedly renounce any allegiance she has to the Wardens.

That’s easy for her to do.

The Grand Cleric speaks up and tells everyone not only of the phylactery confirming Solona’s identity, but also of her trips to heal those in the city.

It’s support from the least likely corner, although the Grand Cleric still does boom a warning about magic and mages that could undo the good words she’s spoken. But really, what else could they expect from the Chantry? The Grand Cleric at least reminds everyone that Solona was raised in a Circle until she became a Grey Warden, and took no part in the mage-templar war.

While the Grand Cleric finishes her speech with a waning about needing to be vigilant, Solona thinks this is probably as impartial as the Chantry ever gets about mages.

The discussion continues on to dissect her character and heritage, and Solona fights to keep her exasperation off her face. Ceorlic again wades into it. “But none of this matters! Who is she? She’s a whelp from a Circle, a nothing! She would dilute the Theirin line.”

Solona see’s Anora’s lips thin at this, and knows it’s a comment that cuts close for her.

But Ceorlic is unintentionally giving Solona the opportunity to speak up for herself. She’s been waiting for it – and it’s been difficult to bite her tongue and not get involved as all these people were discussing her life. But it’s important that she waits for her moment.

“Bann Ceorlic,” she begins, sounding far more respectful than she feels. “I was born to Revka Amell, niece of Lord Aristide Amell of Kirkwall. Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, is my second cousin. The Amell family may in decline, and I am a mage, but I am still noble born.”

It’s strange to speak of her family, of whom she has only the most distant memories. It feels disingenuous – she’s never mentioned or used her noble birth before, because it doesn’t feel like it’s hers to claim. And it isn’t, not really – she’s not allowed to. She’s just a mage. In that respect, Ceorlic is correct – she’s a nobody. She can never claim her family name in any real sense. Aside from the two Hawke siblings, she’s not even sure if there are any Amells left. But she has to fight these people somehow, and she’s not above using a family tie that means nothing to her to do it.

It also means: she may be a mage, but she’s technically higher born than the previous queen. Loghain had been made Teyrn of Gwaren, but no one forgets that he was the son of a farmholder. And Anora was born before he was ever made Teyrn.

And Solona hates it. Being noble born means _nothing_. Alistair isn’t a good king because of Maric’s blood, he’s a good king because he’s made the sacrifice and commitment to _be_ a good king. He wants to do right by his people and was – and still is – willing to put in the effort to learn how to do that. Alistair was hardly raised to do this, but his distinctly non-royal upbringing made him a man worthy to do it. His hardships made him compassionate, not cynical. And yet for so many here, that royal blood is the most important thing about Alistair when it should be the opposite. They’ll praise him for being a better king than Cailan and in the next breath condemn him for being a bastard. He can’t win.

So it vexes Solona to have to bring up her own nobility in such a way. She despises that she has to do this. The fact that her family are nobles doesn’t mean she’s more or less suited to marrying a king than anyone else.

And she hates that she can hear the appreciative murmurs around her at her words, even if it’s what they need for this to succeed.

Maker, but she feels unclean. Another reminder for her that politics is, in fact, the worst.

Ceorlic frowns. “You are still a mage. You cannot claim the titles of your family.”

She tilts her head in agreement. “I’ve never looked to claim them. That my family is noble is simply a fact.”

Fergus Cousland speaks up. He’s been silent so far. Like Oswyn, he’s generally a supporter of Alistair, but expressed reservations about this sudden marriage proposal – although he did not refuse support. Solona had been worried about so many of them being noncommittal – but Alistair had been more confident. “While the request of his Majesty is certainly an unusual one, we must not forget his reign has been prosperous, and that he has been a just ruler. We know him to be a good man, beloved throughout the kingdom. We have all begged his Majesty to take a wife and secure the line – is this not what he is doing?” He turns to Solona, an apologetic tint to his voice. “Begging pardon to the Lady Amell, but I understand the reservations about His Majesty taking a mage for a wife. But we must also consider – is not our Herald of Andraste a mage? And an elven one at that? Has Ferelden not been saved twice over by these mages?”

Solona keeps the smile off her face. She knew she liked Fergus Cousland for a reason. He’d hit a few of their arguments unexpectedly, and quite eloquently – Alistair’s popularity, his steady rule, the mage Inquisitor, the fact that she’d saved them all.

She can tell Alistair is thinking the same thing as their eyes meet.

“Magic exists to serve man,” a voice from behind Solona snaps, and she briefly closes her eyes in exasperation at the refrain she heard every day growing up in the Circle.

Fergus nods. “Of course. Lady Amell has shown she uses her magic to help others. We must remain vigilant, of course, but by all accounts she is using her magic to serve man. Just as a king serves his people.”

More murmurs and circular discussions continue for a time.

“And if they marry, and have children, and they are mages?” Anora asks this.

“Mage children are always a risk, even in families with no magic.” Eamon replies. While he has no vote in this, his opinion still carries weight. “No one knows that better than I.”

It takes everything in Solona not to bristle at the way they talk about mages.

“They just have to make lots of them,” Bann Eremon of the Waking Sea says this almost cheerfully. She’d always been open and pleasant with Solona. “They can’t all be mages.”

Solona decides it is best to ignore this incorrect assumption, especially as it seems to be working on some of the crowd. After all, a few of them do have mage children, sent to various Circles across Thedas, but they all have other _acceptable_ children, too. Eamon, with his sole child being a mage, is an exception, but he at least has a younger brother who has taken over the Arling and produced heirs.

And so it goes on, still mostly in circles. While the most frustrating aspect of all this is being unable to speak up for herself how she’d like, it also takes a long time. At times she feels like they’re discussing the purchase of a horse, and it’s all she can do to keep her thoughts off her face.

She can see Alistair’s jaw clench and his forehead crease, and knows that he’s probably also biting back what he’d really like to say. King he may be, but the Landsmeet is for the nobles. This is how it has to be. He can’t alienate them or ignore their concerns.

It’s all beyond tedious.

But through it all, that’s the most negative reaction that Alistair gives, and it’s probably unnoticeable to someone who doesn’t know him well. He never fidgets or looks bored or appears as anything less than a regal king. On the one hand, Solona marvels at it, because she remembers him telling her how much he struggled with templar training. On the other… it makes her a bit sad, because this doesn’t come easily to him, and he has to curb a lot of his natural tendencies.

If only things were easier.

She still has to brush away lingering guilt at being the one who put him in this position. It’s long done, the past is past. They are moving on.

\---

Finally, terms are decided – if she is to marry Alistair, she is merely a wife, a consort. She has no title and will be addressed as Lady Solona or Lady Theirin.

She starts slightly at that. _Lady Theirin_.

For some of them, she’s just a means to heirs and shouldn’t get any notions above that. She is to have no involvement in the running of the country. The king is surrounded by good councillors, he doesn’t need to heed the involvement of a mage.

She’s allowed to continue her healing work and it’s with some bitterness that Solona thinks, _oh how very magnanimous_.

She can’t lie. It chafes at her, not only because she knows she’d be a good advisor, but also because she’s proven herself capable time and time again and they will try to diminish her to simply being a broodmare and nothing more, just because of their fear of mages. But these rules let them think they’re in control.

Solona knows that Alistair also hates that they speak this way about her, and that this is the only way to appease them. She thinks back to their conversation, when he asked if he was worth this, and for the first time she truly gets what he means. A king he may be, with the power and privilege that goes with it, but there is a price to pay.

But it’s still not nearly enough to change her mind. She knows what she wants and she knows they can make a good life for themselves if only these nobles would pull their heads out of their backsides for a moment.

The discussion continues.

It goes without saying that Solona will be closely monitored – but that won’t be any different from before, really. And she knows that any member of the royal family is closely watched, regardless.

She hasn’t forgotten how people spoke about Queen Anora, and the frank discussion of her sex life and the regularity of her bleeding. Solona knows how this goes.

By the time it comes to the vote, it’s growing dark outside. Solona is pretty sure they have the support they need, but she’s still nervous as the Speaker calls for them to announce their votes.

Anora votes first, rejecting the proposal. It’s not a surprise, but Solona finds herself disappointed.

Fergus Cousland votes next, raising an eyebrow at Anora. He votes in favour, with a smile at Alistair.

And so it goes. It doesn’t take long for Solona to realise they have the majority, with Coerlic being the only other voice against them. The Grand Cleric reissues her warning about magic but it mostly seems to be just because it’s expected of her.

Solona’s breath catches as Alistair beams down at her as the Speaker proclaims the result and dismisses the Landsmeet for the day.

Beside her, Teagan congratulates her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alistair look so happy,” he murmurs. “I am glad you’ve returned to his life, Lady Amell.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You can always count on the Arling of Redcliffe for support,” he continues in a low voice. “Your good deeds – both of your good deeds – are not forgotten.”

She smiles at him, but they have no time for further conversation as she is being approached by other nobles to offer congratulations and, she thinks cynically, to make a favourable impression. Alistair has come down from the balcony and she can see he’s also dealing with the same.

Just when she thinks she’s made her way through all the polite conversation she can stand, she sees a gap in the crowd and begins to make her escape.

But she doesn’t get too far, and is brought up short by Anora, who’s standing near the door, eyes fixed on her.

“So,” Anora says coolly, glancing around, making sure no one is in earshot. “Was this always your plan when you deposed me?”

Well, that answered Solona’s question of if _that_ still bothered her.

“No,’ she answers honestly, despite knowing Anora probably won’t believe her. “I’m a mage. I never expected… this.”

“That is precisely why…” Anora catches herself, clearly frustrated.

Solona knows Anora was imprisoned for a time after Alistair was made king because she refused to recognise him as such. One of the first times Alistair bent his will against his advisors was to rebuffed their insistence that Anora be executed. He knew she was a threat and she was at that point still well liked, but he also knew she would never be able to drum up enough support against an actual son of Maric, especially not one who just helped end the Blight. Her claim died as soon as Alistair asserted his.

And by Alistair not only granting her clemency, but allowing her to keep Gwaren, he left Anora in his debt. Although he has her closely watched, of course, even now. He’s not a fool.

While Alistair had no children, Anora still remained heir presumptive – although by now that was something nobody, aside maybe from Anora herself, wanted. She was too old without heirs of her own, and by at point too unpopular or just plain forgotten about by the people. But If Alistair had died fighting that dragon or from the Cure, Anora would still have been in a good position to make her claim.

But so would others, and then there would be another civil war.

Considering the circumstances, Solona can see how Anora remains bitter. And knowing what she does, there’s that familiar pang of guilt there too. Because Anora _was_ a good queen.

For the tiniest, briefest of seconds, she’s tempted to tell Anora where she’s been and what she knows. To tell her that being queen wouldn’t have made her happy.

But she doesn’t, because Solona isn’t a fool either.

A silence stretches out between them. It’s clear Anora wants to say something to Solona. Or perhaps, if her expression is any indication, she wants to scream in Solona’s face.

But her manner smooths over when Alistair arrives, and she gives him a stiff bow, greeting him in a cold voice. “Your Majesty, you both have my congratulations.”

She’s gone before Alistair can even thank her. He slides an arm around Solona’s shoulder. “Well, that seemed genuine, didn’t it?” he quips in her ear quietly.

Solona can only shake her head. “I’m not sure she’s buying what I’m selling.”

“Doesn’t matter. She has Gwaren, which gives her some power, but not enough to be dangerous. She’s not gained any goodwill over the years. She’s just always there, frowning at me from the corner.” He drops his voice even lower. “I am so relieved Eamon didn’t make me marry her.”

Solona ignores the twist in her stomach at the idea. She had always seen how that could have worked, maybe, potentially, but she was never able to entertain the thought of it seriously when it had been considered before the Landsmeet that made Alistair king.

Not only was she certain Alistair and Anora would make each other miserable, she also wasn’t that altruistic.

“Anyway,” he continues, brightening up, “We’ll soon be free of this and then we can celebrate our betrothal being made official _properly_. I’ve already informed the servants we’ll be eating privately tonight, but we are expected to put on a banquet soon.” He pauses, his eyes drifting away from her, and she follows his line of sight to a few approaching people, obviously intent on speaking to him.

“You go on,” he says into her ear in a low voice, making her shiver. “I’ll make my escape soon.” He then turns her slightly, patting her backside firmly and nudges her towards the door.

She raises her eyebrows at him but he simply grins before he turns towards the people attempting to speak to him, leaving her to make her way back to his rooms, a silly smile spreading across her own face as it truly begins to sink in that they succeeded.

Solona laughs to herself, giddy.

\---

Alistair is quicker to get away than Solona expects, and she’s surprised to see him stride into the dining room of his private quarters with a determined set to his jaw. She’s even more surprised when he orders everyone out in an authoritative tone.

For a split second Solona thinks he means her too, but then his eyes fall on hers and he’s looking at her like he wants to eat her and…

…the second the last server is out of the room, shutting the door behind them, Alistair is on her, pushing her back against the dining table, kissing her like she’s the very air he needs. She just holds on, opening her mouth to him and groaning at the slide of his tongue against hers, and the world melts away. The feel of the fabric of her dress sliding up her legs makes her shudder, and she’s suddenly desperate for his touch.

Once he’s gathered the fabric of her dress around her waist, Alistair nudges her up onto the table. She obliges, more than happy at his initiative.

Alistair pulls down her smalls in haste, dropping them to the floor, and cups her sensitive flesh, making her moan.

Solona has gone from being hungry for dinner, to an entirely different kind of hunger. And as he spreads her legs and pulls her forward to the edge of the table, a distant part of her is trying to catch her attention to the fact that while they’re in Alistair’s private dining room, it’s not guaranteed that no one will walk in. She really doesn’t want anyone else to see her spread open on the table like she’s the main course.

She’s about to suggest moving to the bedroom when Alistair drops to his knees and puts his mouth on her, and all coherent thoughts disappear.

His tongue licks up the hot centre of her before he stops on her clit, sucking. She jerks against him and falls back to her elbows, gasping. Somewhere around her, some silverware clatters, but she hardly cares.

Alistair continues working her, thoroughly and enthusiastically, and soon adds his fingers to the mix, stroking the flames even higher.

Solona is a writhing mess above him. One hand weaves into his hair, while the other is digging into the wood of the table. It’s with difficulty that she hauls herself more upright, needing to see him.

He pauses, pulling away slightly, fingers still inside her. He’s breathing heavily, but his grin says it all. Her wetness coats his lips and chin, making him look absolutely sinful. Desperately, Solona tries to nudge his mouth back towards her. He’s still so close she can feel his breath against her sensitive skin. But he resists her urging, still grinning. He places a delicate kiss to the wrist of the hand holding his hair before curling his fingers inside her in _that_ way, hitting that spot that makes her cry out and shudder.

Solona can’t keep her eyes open, and her head falls back. But mercifully Alistair’s mouth returns to her. The sensation is too much, and the comforting and firm grip of his free hand on one of her thighs, holding her open to him, is welcoming.

His tongue slides over her wetness like it did against her mouth earlier – like it was something he needed to survive. Eager, loving… _everything_. His fingers curl again, brushing that spot, while his hand tightens against her thigh and the feel of his beard scratches against the delicate inner skin of her other thigh. Every sensation feels heightened, and that tight coil inside her winds impossibly tight, tighter and tighter against his unrelenting fingers and tongue.

When she comes, she sees stars, her body arching up off the table, loud cries she can’t even think about holding in escaping. Alistair keeps his mouth on her the whole time, appearing to want to lap up every drop of her. When his fingers slip from her, she feels slightly bereft at their loss.

Weakly, she raises her head, and watches as he picks a napkin off the table to wipe his mouth with. She groans at the sight – honestly, why is everything this man does such a turn on? – and he refocuses on her with a smile.

Just as Solona is about to say something, Alistair carefully pulls her forward again, hooking an arm under her knees, and another around her arms to haul her over his shoulder.

She lets out an undignified squeak as he carries her through his rooms to the bedroom, and both feels and hears his rumbling laugh in return.

He clambers up onto the bed, kneeling on it, before placing Solona down gently, shuffling down the bed to give her some space, but she grabs hold of his collar and he halts, hovering above her.

“What was that?”

“Oh,” he says, with a shy smile that belies what he’s just been doing. “I’d been thinking about it all day.”

He’d been at the Landsmeet, in front of all his nobles, fighting so they could marry and he’d been thinking about _that_. “Is that what you meant by eating privately?”

He laughs, blushing. “…I suppose I did.” His smile spreads and he settles himself over her. Solona can feel how hard he is against her. “I hope you didn’t mind.”

“Maker, no. It was just unexpected.”

“I wanted to celebrate with my betrothed.” He kisses her softly. “Alone.”

She arches up into him, arousal flickering in her again despite the recent, almost overwhelming, pleasure he’d given her.

“I was worried, but you were right.” She laughs, a little breathlessly. “I can’t believe you pulled it off.”

“We. We pulled it off.” He kisses her again before he begins to disrobe her, and Solona sits up to help him, and divest him of his own clothes. There’s no rush to their actions, which is peppered with kisses and sweet words.

Solona places a kiss on his chest, over his heart. “I never thought I’d be getting married.”

Alistair’s looking at her with a heavy gaze. “Not even when we were together before?”

“Not really.” She looks up at him. “It’s not like I’d ever have been allowed to marry in the Circle. And then…” She hesitates. “When we were together I didn’t let myself think about it. Not with everything else going on. It seemed too much like a fairy tale ending. I didn’t think a mage would ever get that. So I didn’t think about it.”

Alistair is still and silent, lost for a moment in the past. “I always wanted to marry you. After I’d lost you, and they were all insisting I find a wife… I thought I’d resigned myself to the idea of a political match but in the end, I just couldn’t marry someone who wasn’t you. It seemed like… well, it seemed like a betrayal of the highest order.” His lips twist into a bitter grimace. “I know I had no right to feel like that.”

She places a hand on his cheek. “I’ve forgiven you for that. I trust you, Alistair.” As she says it, she knows it as certain as she knows she knows she loves him. He’s risked a lot to fight for their relationship, and more than proven that he won’t leave her again.

“You do? Truly?”

“Yes,” she says, smiling.

He pulls her closer to him. “Good. That’s good to know. You’re stuck with me now.” His eyes crinkle as he laughs, and she’s overwhelmed with feeling for a moment. He’s going to be her _husband_.

She answers honestly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	9. Chapter 9

Everybody loves a royal wedding.

Except perhaps for the couple in the centre of it all, who would happily go to the Chantry at dawn and have a quiet ceremony to exchange their vows and become husband and wife.

But that won’t do for a king, of course. After their betrothal banquet, preparations for the wedding immediately start. The king’s councillors see no point in waiting and in this, at least, Alistair is in complete agreement. An auspicious date not long after Summerday is agreed upon, and wedding planning begins in earnest.

Every time Alistair mentions his betrothed, he gets a fond faraway look on his face, and his councillors are equal parts annoyed and amused.

To everyone’s relief, the announcement of the wedding is greeted mostly with anticipation and excitement. There is some negativity, of course. There will always be naysayers. But Alistair’s popularity and the fondness the people have for him win the day again. People trust him.

Solona knows well that she’s been placed in the category of ‘good mage’ and that it would be extremely easy for her to fall from that perch into a despised ‘blood or otherwise bad mage’. So she remains careful to appear as non-threatening as she can. Healing magic helps, of course, and she suspects if people had seen her on a battlefield they’d be far more wary.

Most of the wedding planning is out of her hands, and Solona is fine with that. She’s too busy learning how to run a large household. Queen she may not be, but she’ll still be the lady of the palace and in charge of far more than she expected. It’s not long before she’s hosting nobles and foreign dignitaries and winning them over with a charm that belies her often less than flattering thoughts towards them.

And by her side is Alistair, always. He delights in not having to hide his affection now, and there would be murmurs about she’s clearly cast some kind of spell on him if it weren’t for the fact that it’s clear Solona adores Alistair as much as he does her. She’s just a little quieter about it – at least in public.

\---

The Inquisitor seals the Breach. Missives arrive shortly before their wedding informing them of Corypheus’s defeat, with apologies that the Inquisitor would not be able to make it in time for their wedding. Neither would Leliana, which Solona is more disappointed at, but she understands.

Ferelden celebrates this Dalish mage who has saved them all. For many, it seems that the world is finally coming to rights.

\---

If the Grey Wardens are suspicious of the sudden return of a long dead member of their Order, one who supposedly died the most honourable death a Grey Warden could, they don’t say it. If they have thoughts on the Cure for the Calling that Solona painstakingly writes out and sends to them, they don’t share.

Weisshaupt remains silent.

\---

In the days leading towards the wedding, Denerim is at capacity and then some. Everyone wants to see the king finally take a wife. The streets are covered in bunting, a holiday has been declared, and everyone is ready to celebrate. Delegates from across Thedas have arrived, brushing elbows with the entirety of the Ferelden nobility, discussing the wedding, the new queen – sorry, _consort_ – and the future of the Inquisition. Many of the foreign dignitaries and nobles are so outwardly curious and baffled at Alistair’s choice of wife that Solona vaguely wonders if she should be insulted and then decides she doesn’t care what any of them thinks.

The story of Alistair and Solona – a couple whose love has survived so long apart – has caught the attention of many. There are any number of poems and novels hastily penned to cash in.

They are mostly all incorrect. Many of them are torrid, more of them are romantic, with lots of pining away for each other for ten years. But not one of them even considers they were separated by death and only reunited due to magical amulets and different worlds. _How unimaginative_ , Solona thinks, reading them with amusement, sharing the most outrageous excerpts with Alistair, whose ears turn pink at the raunchiness of it all, and who groans when Solona tells him the Randy Dowager has released a special edition just about them.

“It’s all the rage in Val Royeaux,” she says with a grin, sliding it across to him, open to a particularly descriptive passage. “The Lady herself gives it five scarves fluttering in shock out of five, and it’s called _A Royal Flush_.” She pauses, taking in the blush that’s now spread across his face and which, she knows from experience, goes right down his neck onto his chest. “It’s like they know you personally.”

He looks up at her, raising his eyebrows and looking amused. “I’m reconsidering my stance on book burning.” His eyes drift back down again to the magazine again, and he shakes his head. “Maker’s breath, what is _wrong_ with Orlesians?”

\---

The wedding is a grand affair, conducted by the Grand Cleric herself, who eyeballs the bride and groom with a hard look that neither of them notice, too busy sneaking glances and smiles at each other through her sermon.

Solona and Alistair emerge from the cathedral to a bright, sunny day. There are gasps of delight at the handsome king, looking more hearty and hale than ever, and his beautiful bride by his side in a stunning gown. They walk the short journey to the palace from the cathedral, stopping often to speak to people in the crowd. Even the naysayers can have noting negative to say about how Alistair’s bride handles herself.

It’s clear to all that looks at them that this is a love match.

The ceremony is followed by a grand meal at the palace, and food and entertainment has been set out across the city for all to enjoy. Today is a holiday, after all.

After the long meal, with many courses and much toasting of the new marriage, there is dancing and revelry, going on well into the night. Even those who don’t care for the monarch’s choice of wife are more than happy to enjoy his hospitality and the festivities of the occasion.

\---

It’s late that evening when Alistair and Solona are escorted to their bedroom by a number of nobles – all of whom are very drunk and full of suggestions at how best to make a baby and ‘make the lady comfortable’.

Solona is greatly amused that that they seem to think her a maiden – it’s hardly a secret that she’s more or less already living in Alistair’s rooms – but Alistair is clearly getting a little irritated, and there’s that blush spreading from the tips of the ears down his neck.

But this is all part of the occasion, of course. She can tell that many of them are gleefully taking the opportunity to whisper obscene suggestions in Alistair’s ears.

It’s with relief that they can finally close the door on the world, at least until morning. She knows some still hold to the tradition of actually escorting a newly married couple right into the bed, but Alistair, thankfully, wasn’t going to let them further in than the door.

“Maker’s breath,” he mutters. “That was terrible.”

She laughs lightly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. On the other side of the door she can hear Teagan telling everyone that they’ve had their fun but it’s time to leave the king’s apartments. She takes stock of the room. It’s been made ready for them, with a warm fire blazing and food and drink set out on the table.

First things first. Solona lifts her dress slightly and toes off the uncomfortable shoes she’s been wearing all day and, with a certain amount of glee, kicks them across the room. She wriggles her stockinged toes into the plush carpet and then makes her way over to the table.

“Wine, husband?” She asks with a coy look over her shoulder at Alistair, who is still leaning against the door, watching her, although he looks a little frazzled.

But he relaxes at her words, and his grin lights up the room. “In just a moment, wife.” He crosses the room in long strides and spins her around to face him. He kisses her until they’re both gasping for breath and then pulls away, tucking a piece of hair he’s dislodged behind her ear. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.”

Solona grabs his collar and pulls him back down for another kiss. They’d exchanged a few chaste kisses over the course of the day. Doing anything _beyond_ chaste in front of a glowering Grand Cleric seemed like a bad idea, and Solona is hungry for him.

“Solona,” he says against her lips.

“Mm?” She presses herself closer to him, too distracted for talking.

“In which direction is south east?”

She pauses, and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue back into her mouth. He’s smiling against her, his hands rest on her back, and Solona sighs into him, letting herself be kissed thoroughly. When they break apart again she says, “South east? Why?”

“Oh, did you not hear that? If I point you in a south easterly direction and rub elfroot on your stomach, the Maker will bless our union with a child.” He waggles his eyebrows at her. “Apparently.”

“That’s…” _Utter nonsense_ , she’s going to say, but something occurs to her. “Point me how? By my feet or by my head?”

“Hmm.” Alistair pretends to give it serious thought. “Wait here, I’ll go ask.”

He makes to turn away from her, and she lets out a peal of laughter and grabs his arm. “Don’t you dare!”

He laughs with her and takes a seat at the table, pulling her with him onto his lap. Solona sits sideways across his thighs, one arm wrapped around his shoulder to keep her steady. Alistair pours them both wine and she takes a drink, finally feeling able to relax for the first time since she’d been roused early that morning to be prepared for the long day ahead.

Unfortunately, she can’t relax that much, because the dress she’s in – while beautiful – is incredibly restricting. But she doubts she’ll be wearing it for much longer. And anyway, she’s borne it all day, she can handle a few more minutes.

“It’s been quite a day,” Alistair says as she settles against him.

She hums in agreement. In truth, it’s all been a bit of a blur, and she’s a little relieved it’s all over. The wedding was a spectacle, and about more than just her and Alistair’s relationship. It’s a display of his power and wealth, a chance to show off his bride to people, and a celebration for a kingdom that has seen much tragedy. So, while the wedding wasn’t just for _them_ , Solona understands, and she isn’t going to complain.

Not when she’s so happy with her husband. Her husband. It makes her smile.

While marriage makes them more secure, Solona does know that the pressure will be on for them to start producing heirs – quickly. The friendly tips for conception they’ve been receiving all evening are just one reminder of that.

But they’ve agreed that there’s little point in worrying about that yet. There’s no guarantees, and anyway, they should just try and see what happens first before anything else, and they’ve always been very good at the _trying_ part, at least.

Her stomach rumbles, distracting her from her thoughts and reminding her that she’s hungry for more than just the touch of her husband.

“You didn’t eat much dinner, did you?” Alistair asks, his hand skimming down her side.

“It seemed like a bad idea in this,” she pats the gown she’s wearing. She’s laced into it so tightly that she knew if she ate much at dinner she’d regret it. Thankfully, such tight corsetry isn’t the common fashion in Ferelden, but considering the day it is, she was expected to push the boundaries a bit.

She probably shouldn’t have given the dressmaker so much freedom, as beautiful as the final garment is. But designing gowns is not something she has any idea about or even any interest in.

Alistair stands them both up, holding Solona steady. He walks them across the room to a dressing table with a large mirror on top.

He looks over her head, catching her gaze in the mirror. “Can I make you more comfortable?” His voice is a low rumble, and all she can do is nod.

Alistair’s hands skim up her sides, over her shoulders and into her hair. Carefully, so as not to pull on her hair, he starts removing the pins out of her elaborately styled up-do. He’s gentle and thorough, placing each pin neatly on the dresser. Her hair has also been adorned with flowers, and those he also removes tenderly, careful not to catch her hair or damage the colourful petals of the flowers.

The whole time Solona watches him in the mirror, mesmerised by both the sight of him, and his reverent touches. When he’s done, and her hair is cascading down her back, he massages her scalp in the way she knows he’s seen her do in the past when she’s taken her hair down, and she groans at the pleasant feel of it, closing her eyes and leaning into him.

After a few moments, Alistair gathers her hair and brings it over one of her shoulders. “Hold this?”

She does, using one hand to keep her hair out of the way. Alistair presses a kiss to the back of her neck, making her sigh, and his hands skim up and down her back again.

When he stills, she opens her eyes to see him frowning.

“Maker,” he mutters behind her. “There’s a lot of buttons on this dress.”

She shakes with repressed laughter. “It took three women to get me into it.”

“ _Three_?” Alistair sighs. “I’m regretting telling the servants to leave us alone for the night.”

“You can cut me out with a sword,” she says playfully.

“Oh, no. I heard enough about how this was made by very holy Chantry sisters on an island somewhere who went blind with their devotion to intricate stitching. If I destroy this with a sword, the Grand Cleric _will_ find out and she _will_ ex-communicate me.” She feels a finger run up her spine, following the line of delicate buttons that run from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, and she shivers. He straightens up and wraps his arms around her middle, resting his cheek against her hair. “I know I told you this already, but you looked so beautiful today. Don’t get me wrong, you always do, but seeing you dressed like this was a bit of a new experience.”

“Those sisters didn’t go blind for nothing,” Solona replies dryly, but she’s smiling. Despite the stress of the day, she’s been smiling easily through most of it. And Alistair’s face when he’d seen her had been worth it. The dress was long, and intricate, with a flowing skirt and fitted bodice and long sleeves. Lots of lace work and fiddly bits. She’s not even sure how to describe half the things going on with it, but she does feel beautiful in it.

She’s still more than ready for it to come off and to never have to wear it again.

“No, they didn’t, and in fact, you look so good in it, and so much work went into making it, that I think you should just wear it all the time. Never take it off.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to let some buttons defeat you.”

Alistair laughs lightly and draws back to inspect the dress again. “My lady! I can’t believe you think so little of me.” He begins opening the buttons, almost torturously slowly. She’s itching to feel his hands on her bare skin and as if sensing her thoughts, He places more kisses on the back of her neck. When he’s finished with the buttons, he nudges the fabric further apart. Solona pulls the sleeves down, and Alistair takes her hand to help her step out of the fabric now pooling around her.

He eyeballs the corset that’s been revealed to him. It’s pulled tight to her form, sitting over a long chemise. With his hands on her hips, feeling the boning of the garment, he says, “Isn’t this very uncomfortable?”

“Yes, and today is the first and last time I will ever wear one.”

He turns her again to begin unlacing her. “Understandable.” She sighs in relief as he pulls the corset apart, and stretches when he finally pulls it off her, leaving her in just the chemise, which is is long and luxurious and not all that revealing, but it still makes Alistair’s eyes darken as he looks at her.

But he seems to be ignoring any lustful thoughts for now, as he tugs her back over to the chair and sits down, settling Solona on his lap again. This time she’s far more comfortable. They’ve been left with an abundance of food – breads, fruits, cold cuts of meat, cheese, and a huge selection of cakes and delicacies.

Solona immediately goes for the cakes. “This feels very decadent. The cake, the wine –” she wiggles in his lap, “– you.”

“Royalty has its perks.” Alistair’s voice against her ear makes her shiver, and he briefly presses another kiss to her neck before helping himself to more wine.

She nibbles on the delicious cakes, watching him, until he looks a little self conscious. “Something on my face?”

“No,” she says in a light voice. “Just admiring my handsome husband.” He had looked especially handsome today in his new suit, fitted to perfection over his form. And all day he’d worn a smile for everyone that warmed even more whenever he looked at her.

“Oh, right then,” he replies with a shy smile. “Admire away, wife.” He pauses, and places his wine glass down. “You know, I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that.” His voice lowers, and he takes her hand in his, running a thumb over her wedding band. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

“You do deserve this. We both deserve happiness.” Solona is firm. Whatever brought her here, whether that Venatori knew it would send her here or not – it didn’t matter anymore. The Inquisition had come no closer to unlocking the magic that caused it and perhaps she _should_ care more. But Corypheus and the Venatori have been dealt with. Her presence here didn’t end the world and now she and Alistair have carved out a slice of happiness for themselves. She’s determined to keep it.

Alistair is thoughtful. “We do, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do.” She turns on his lap, hiking up her chemise so she can straddle him. Taking his face in her hands, she kisses him, slowly and thoroughly. Alistair’s own hands slide down her back to grasp her backside, and she gasps against his mouth when he stands, quickly grabbing his shoulders. But Alistair has her in a firm grip, and he carries her over and onto the bed, depositing her in the middle of it.

He’s hovering over her, and Solona pulls him back down for a kiss before letting her hands wander over his shoulders and chest, eventually moving down to start tugging off his clothes. Alistair obliges, shrugging them off until he’s topless, before he resumes kissing her. It isn’t long before his trousers are also gone and he’s dragging the chemise slowly up Solona’s body, following each patch of skin revealed to him with a kiss.

She’ll never get tired of this, she thinks, the addictive feel of his skin pressed against hers, the slide of his lips, his scent, his everything. Alistair pulls away long enough to divest them both of their smallclothes before he’s pressing against her again, shifting her legs so his fingers can stroke between them, coaxing out cries and moans from her. It’s not long before Solona takes him in hand, lining him up with her entrance, and he kisses her as deep as he enters her.

They move together, and still, even now, despite how many times they’ve lain together since they’ve been reunited, it’s still feels like new; a rawness to their intimacy that Solona isn’t sure can ever be worn down to smoothness. She brushes away some sweat slicked hair from his face, struggling to keep her eyes open against the rising pleasure. Her heart stutters when Alistair turns his head to kiss her palm, his movements faltering slightly for a moment.

Solona winds her hand into his hair, and his head dips momentarily against her shoulder, lips against her flushed skin. She cries out as he resumes his thrusts, moving like he can’t get close enough to her, and she feels the same, Maker does she feel the same.

She comes with his name on her lips and in her heart, and he follows in the same manner not long after. They lie in a satisfied heap, catching their breath.

She lazily traces a hand up and down his back, drowsy and sated, content in so many ways, with her husband.

\---

As it turns out, the role of consort isn’t much different than what she’s been doing already. She isn’t queen, so she doesn’t officially hear petitions, or sit in a throne beside Alistair. And she’s fine with that. Solona continues similar duties to when she was a court mage, which is mainly healing, although sometimes people do approach her for magical or occult advice. Occasionally she gets the impression that someone is trying to catch her out doing some illicit magic. And while Solona is very good at the magic she does, it’s still all just Circle approved magic, albeit shaped by a life outside the Tower.

Unofficially, she’s petitioned often, and it’s good she already has experience with the delicate dance of diplomacy. She can’t be seen to be exerting an influence over the king, but nor can she ignore some of the pleas made towards her.

Suspicions still linger about her, but to her relief, Alistair’s marriage to her makes no real dent in his popularity or threatens his throne. They see that their king is happy and in love with a woman that loves him back, and they pray to the Maker for heirs to continue the stability Alistair has brought. As time goes on and he remains the same as ever, some of the scrutiny lessens.

She’s referred to as queen colloquially by many outside of the palace. 

Still, it’s often difficult, and she chafes at times being dismissed as just a ‘wife’ and not even a person who’s opinions and experience may be worth consideration.

It bothers Alistair too, but this is the compromise that they made. And anyone who attempts to disparage his wife in his presence soon learns to regret it.

It’s a compromise that they learn to work with, and they know it’s far more than they would have gotten ten years ago, should they both have survived.

Solona is able to make a purpose for herself beyond Alistair, and word of her kindness continues to spread.

\---

Their honeymoon doubles as a royal progress, to allow people to see the king’s wife. They go west first, through South Reach and on to Redcliffe, where they both enjoy a warm welcome from Teagan.

Then they go north to Crestwood, where they seek out Judith to thank her for her assistance, all those months ago, both in words and with gifts. And then it’s east to Highever and Amaranthine (a difficult place for Solona to visit), and finally back to Denerim.

It’s now that Solona truly settles into palace life, hosting dignitaries and nobles and all kinds of people. She quickly learns the ropes of handling a large household, and once again, her time as Arlessa of Amaranthine comes in handy.

Anyone who expects or hopes for her to fail is sorely disappointed.

Through it all, she and Alistair grow ever closer. In private, he tells her all the workings of the kingdom, and he heeds her advice, still lamenting that she can’t take a more public role. But her sudden elevation has gone over remarkably smoothing precisely because she hasn’t, and because of all the other precautions they took.

Ferelden has a queen in all but name, and she more than proves that she’s worthy to be called as such.

\---

The one thing that would make their happiness complete and give Alistair’s reign security remains elusive.

The servants that take care of Solona and Alistair are well paid and well looked after, and particularly loyal to their king. Solona is confident none of them are leaking news to nobles about her monthly courses – like she’d heard happen with Anora – although it’s difficult to be entirely certain of that.

As the months wear on and their first wedding anniversary begins to loom with no sign of a pregnancy, she begins to worry. It was always a possibility it wouldn’t happen for them, and it doesn’t matter if she’s the most wonderful and gracious consort a king could ask for if she can’t provide him with a heir. They’ll make demands of Alistair that he’ll refuse.

It’s the worst thing about being married to a king, of course. Their own pain and worries about their inability to have a child should be a private one, not a topic of national importance and gossip in every town. But privacy is limited for a king, and she knows the goodwill extended towards him will not be granted to his mage wife.

It’s a pain she never expected to live with. The idea of having children with Alistair, back when they were together first, wasn’t something she’d ever given serious consideration to – much like with marriage. There was too much else going on, and both children and marriage were unlikely for a Circle mage. Oh, the Ferelden Circle was well known for it’s promiscuous mages, but that was it. Most pregnancies were taken care of, and any child born to a mage was taken away from its mother before she even got a chance to see the babe. Solona grew up never expecting to ever have children of her own, and when she’d been with Alistair, before, thinking of anything like that was silly – young as they were, in the midst of the Blight.

And the end of the Blight had also seen the end of any hopes or dreams on that front, and now she’s aware that she’s fortunate to even be having this struggle.

She tries not to worry – because everyone knows stress is bad for conceiving, and _everyone_ keeps giving her tips on how to accomplish it – and they keep trying, and sometimes before they make love Solona considers asking Alistair to point her in a south easterly direction and rub elfroot on her stomach.

\---

Alistair is grumpy.

It’s the week after Summerday, and he’d hoped to be back in Denerim for the celebrations. He’d also hoped to be back in Denerim because he’d been gone two months and it’s been a very long two months without Solona by his side. It’s the longest they’ve been apart since they were reunited, and every day he misses her presence like a physical ache.

But his kingdom consists of more than just Denerim, and Solona is obliged to remain behind while he goes on progress. The nobles unwilling to confer on her the title of queen certainly expect her to perform all the duties of one, and so she remains in the city to host a number of dignitaries and oversee the palace.

He worries about her. She’s settled into the role of consort well – she manages the palace better than he ever did – and the servants and people of Denerim like her. Solona can handle the nobles well too, and he has to remember that it’s not completely new to her; she’d been an Arlessa, after all. He thinks of that sometimes, what she must have been like as Warden Commander, and wishes he could have seen it.

She’s told him all about it, of course. _Another lifetime_ , she calls it.

Regardless, he’s not surprised at her abilities, but he knows it’s a hard adjustment. He had to do it himself, after all, all those years ago. What’s more, he’d had to learn and accept that there were any number of people who wanted him to fail, for their own gain, or who would never come around to support him, no matter how he proved himself. It was difficult to know who to trust. To some, even now, Alistair is still just Maric’s bastard. It’s no different for Solona. She’s still just a mage and, even worse, a power hungry mage. And in the eyes of many, that’s all she’ll ever be.

But still, almost a year into their marriage and no one can accuse her of anything illicit.

He often wonders how it is, to have to be so careful all the time, to have a gift such as magic and have to constrain it so often, even when it might be useful. Solona just shrugs in reply, because that’s how it’s always been, she’d grown up in a Circle and the Circle was about control. Despite the limitations royal life has, it’s still more free than that.

The worst of the criticism she faces is, of course, over the lack of any sign of a pregnancy, and this he knows is wearing on her. Alistair isn’t quick to lose his temper, but on this topic he’s become billergent and unwilling to speak when his councillors bring it up. It’s been less than a year and they place all the blame and pressure on her. It’s not that he wants his own virility brought up in council meetings – he just wants them to not bring it up at all. A naive hope.

In that sense, getting away from Denerim was a relief, but he feels like he’s left Solona to shift for herself while he’s off gallivanting around the country. He’s made it clear he wants no one hassling her over this, but he can’t be sure they’ll stick to his demand when he’s not there.

Anyway, _gallivanting_ makes it sound more fun than it actually is. He’d been in Gwaren for a long overdue visit, and had been faced with Anora’s icy politeness and barbed words. Negotiating with the Dalish elves who have reappeared in the Brecilian Forest is much easier. He’d been sorely tempted to ask, after a long day of discussion, if he could sleep in a tent in the forest rather than return to stilted conversation over dinner with Anora.

He thought often of what Solona had told him about Anora’s rule, and it was uncomfortable knowledge to hold as she sat across from him.

It’s with relief that he finally leaves Gwaren and goes to Redcliffe, where he is delayed with the news that a group of bandits has been forming to the south west, attacking travellers and the smaller villages. Teagan has been mustering his forces to root them out at the source, and Alistair provides his own men to assist.

Despite Alistair’s protestations, Teagan manages to convince him to stay out of the fighting personally. And when it’s all over, Alistair gets to meeting the minor nobility of Redcliffe, dispensing justice, deciding on policy, seeking favour, and all the things that a king must do. There’s growing concern about the continuing presence of the Inquisition, a year after the defeat of Corypheus. Alistair is still on good terms with the organisation, but the fact remains that they have a large army on the Ferelden border, and that they have close ties to Orlais. It’s making people nervous, and he knows if nothing changes soon he’s going to have to have to act.

Letters flow constantly between Redcliffe and Denerim, and every day Alistair has to force himself not to get on a horse and ride back because his letters with Solona aren’t enough. In her messages she sounds well, with everything going smoothly. There’s no reason for him to rush, beyond the fact that he cannot wait to have her in his arms again.

The last year has been the happiest of his reign, and it’s because he has her back.

\---

But finally, _finally_ , he is able to leave Redcliffe and begin making his way back to Denerim. The stately pace he’s forced to travel with pushes his patience, but at least each day they inch closer and closer to where he wants to be.

This Ferelden summer is nicer than most, at least. They’ve had a lot of sunshine and less rain than usual, so they make good time.

But they’re still not back in time for his wedding anniversary. They mark it at the stately home he’s staying in, the host toasting the king and his wife, his prosperous rule, his wisdom, blah blah blah. All the usual stuff. Alistair forces a smile, which eases into a more genuine one when his own men let out a cheer after the awkward toast, but still, this is hardly where he wants to be on this night.

Four days later, they finally reach Denerim late on a bright afternoon, and he canters his horse quickly through the streets, smiling and waving as appropriate, but for once not stopping to chat. His guards keep up with him, clearing his path ahead.

As soon as he reaches the stables he dismounts, handing the reigns to a stableboy, knowing his mount will be well cared for. He knows by now it has been announced that he’s returned so he’d hoped Solona would be here to meet him. When there’s no sign of her, he swallows his disappointment and enters the palace, waving away anyone trying to waylay him and moving swiftly towards his rooms, hoping he’ll find her there.

But he finds her as soon as he turns a corner, and he immediately realises why she wasn’t there to meet him at stables – her hair is wet, and she’s wearing a heavy cloak that looks like it was thrown on in a hurry. She’d been having a bath, he suspects.

Solona halts at the sight of him, her eyes widening as they travel up and down his body. Alistair doesn’t stop, striding up to her and taking her face in his hands, kissing her deeply. He forgets that they’re in a busy hallway of the palace, any number of people wandering around, and that he’s travel worn and in desperate need of a bath himself. He doesn’t care about anything except that he’s holding her again.

When he finally pulls away, she’s smiling up at him softly, a blush across her cheeks. “Welcome home,” she whispers, readjusting her grasp on her cloak so she can hold it with one hand, allowing the other to cup his cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” he responds, taking the hand against his face and pressing a kiss to it. “You, ah, you aren’t naked under that, are you?”

Her eyes twinkle. “No, just damp. We thought you’d arrive later in the day so I was in the middle of a bath when you got here.” Her flush deepens at his lips on her hand. “And I missed you too.”

“I may have pushed the horses more than I should,” he admits, tucking her arm into his elbow and leading her back to their rooms.

They pause the conversation as they walk, Alistair giving warm but brief replies to those who greet him along the way.

When they reach their room, Alistair relishes the feel of shutting the door on everything for now. There are a million things he needs to take care of now that he’s back in Denerim, but every last one of them is going to wait until tomorrow.

Solona is watching him, obviously trying to bite back a smile. “What is it?” He asks.

She shake her head. “I’m just so glad you’re back.” She removes the cloak, tossing it over a nearby chair, and he can immediately see why she needed it. She’d clearly thrown on a thin gown in her haste, and it’s damp and still clings to parts of her, translucent on her wet skin.

“Well, that’s indecent.”

“I know,” she says mischievously. With her hands free, she hugs him, damp dress and all. He wraps his arms around her and they stay like that for a moment, and now Alistair, finally, feels like he’s returned home.

“I’m sorry I missed our anniversary,” he murmurs.

Once again, Solona shakes her head. “It’s alright, though I have been getting impatient to give you your present.”

“Ohhhh.” Alistair grins down at her. “I do love presents.”

Solona steps back, her eyes flickering up to his with an indecipherable expression. She grabs his hands and places them on her stomach, and she laughs, a light, delighted sounding laugh. Alistair’s heart thunders in his chest and he stares at her as his hands press into her stomach, wondering if he’s imagining the slight differences or not, wondering if she’s telling him what he thinks she’s telling him.

“I’m pregnant,” she’s breathless, clearly pleased to finally be able to share the news with him after holding it in for so long. “About three months, according to the midwife. I’ve been dying to tell you, and I didn’t want to write it in a letter, and–”

He cuts her off with a kiss, wrapping his arms around her. He’s overwhelmed, and for a moment lost for words. “And you’re well?” He draws back and places his hands on her stomach again, a look of wonder on his face. “You’re both well?”

Solona softens. “We’re both well. Some sickness, but the midwife tells me I’m doing better than most.”

“Maker, I…” He laughs, delighted. “As much as I’ve been hoping for this to open, I never imagined how it would feel.”

Solona tears up, although she’s still smiling. “I know. I hadn’t let myself hope…”

Alistair drops to his knees, placing a reverent kiss on her still flat stomach. She gives a watery laugh. “You can’t even tell.”

“But I know,” he whispers. “We’re going to be _parents_ , Solona.” He swallows, suddenly feeling choked up. He is truly the luckiest man in Thedas. He looks up at Solona solemnly, enjoying the feel of her fingers in his hair. “I promise, I’ll love and protect this child as I love and protect you. I know when we tell everyone, all anyone will think is that this child is my heir, but they’re much more than that, and I won’t ever let them think otherwise.”

“And if they’re a mage?” Solona whispers, a crease of worry in her forehead.

“Then they remain with us as they learn to control their powers. I will _never_ send a child of mine away.” Alistair is emphatic. At least with Leliana as the newly appointed Divine Victoria, it meant there were no Circles to send a child to, even if he’d have considered it. But he wouldn’t. Alistair had grown up without a family. So had Solona. Both of them wanted any of child of theirs to know they were loved and to have the life growing up they never had themselves.

Solona’s eyes are still watery, and he thinks about her phylactery, still sitting and gathering dust in the vault, deep in the depths of the palace. No templars would come for her again, and no templars would come for their child and take their blood.

_Their child._

He smiles up at her, pressing another kiss to her belly, but then he frowns. “You really shouldn’t be wearing a wet dress.”

Solona laughs and protests, talking about how warm it’s been and she hadn’t even gone outside, but he insists on her changing into dry clothes, and she does so with good nature. He helps her into a new dress, pressing kisses to any bare skin he can, especially those parts where he knows she’s ticklish – the crook of her elbow, just under her ear. Every time she laughs – an easy, light laugh – it fills him with such happiness he feels fit to burst.

He’s going to be a father.

He never thought he’d be here, secure on his throne, a child on the way, the woman he loves by his side.

\---

They keep the news to themselves for a few more weeks. There are rumours, but there are always rumours at court of some kind, and Solona’s midwife and her closest servants who know exactly what’s going on respect their mistress and their king too much to tell tales.

But for now, they enjoy this period of privacy to celebrate and grow used to the idea, without the interference and expectations of the court and country as a whole.

The rumours grow, of course. The king, always affectionate to his wife, now practically waits on her hand and foot, with stars in his eyes. Bribes passed to the washerwomen reveal that the king’s wife has not had her courses for some time. Rumours of her visiting a well regarded midwife when on her trips to the city are rife.

So when Alistair finally does make the announcement from the throne room, Solona by his side, now just beginning to show for those especially eagle-eyed, there’s not much surprise.

But they still celebrate appropriately, as does the city and the rest of Ferelden when the proclamations are made.

\---

Alistair is determined not to leave Solona’s side during her pregnancy, even though now is the best season for him to be travelling his country. Nothing is going to drag him away from her.

They spend her pregnancy wrapped in a bubble of contentment. Alistair is still the king he ever was, of course, and Solona continues with her own duties, but the burden sits lighter than it did before.

And when their son is born the week of Satinalia, the joy that the people of Ferelden feel at the news is nothing compared to that of the new parents.

They name him Duncan, after a good man who had been so important to them both, a long time ago.

The nights draw in quickly at this time of year. Outside, the cold is piercing, but numerous bonfires are lit across the city in celebration of the new prince, marking his birth and also keeping the revellers warm. Alistair makes a quick public appearance, waving and smiling, before he returns to be with his family, leaving his more than capable guard captain in charge of security in the city.

It takes him longer than he’d like to get back to his rooms. Everyone stops to congratulate him and ask after the mother and child. He does his best to be pleasant in return, although all he wants is to be back with them both.

When he does make it back, Solona is sitting up in the bed. Their son is in her arms, and she’s feeding him from her own breast – a sight that makes him pause in wonder. Her decision was one that raised some eyebrows among the nobility who mostly use wet-nurses, but Ferelden is used to some eccentricities among the royal family by now.

He steps further into the room, realising that it’s been tidied and cleaned from the havoc of childbirth. Solona is lying on clean bedding, and there’s a fire roaring in the hearth. It’s the cosiest this room has ever been.

Solona beams at Alistair as he arrives, tired but happy. The midwife gives him a quick update – mother and child are doing well – and grants them their privacy. Outside the doors to their rooms are any number of nurses and healers on hand for anything the babe or his mother might need, but right now Alistair just wants to be alone with his family.

He pulls off his boots and settles on the bed beside them, watching in awe as his son feeds.

“What does that feel like?” He asks, amazed.

She sighs lightly, leaning against his shoulder and closing her eyes. “Strange, to be honest. But good.”

He wraps an arm around her, careful not to jostle her. “You are amazing, I hope you know that.”

She makes a hum of agreement. “I really am. That was no joke.”

It really wasn’t. He hasn’t felt so terrifyingly helpless since… well, since he’d watched Solona run towards an archdemon. The fear that he would lose her or his child or both of them had near crippled him for a time. He only managed to remain strong because he knew Solona needed him. She’d held tight to his hand, almost crushing it at times, straining with the pain and growing exhaustion, somehow finding the strength to keep going even while the midwives fretted over how long it was taking.

In the end, they were both fine, but for Alistair it had been terrifying. There was nothing he could do to help. King or pauper, all he could do was sit with her, and brush her hair out of her face, and try to be a strength she could lean on.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Sore. Uncomfortable. But at the same time, I don’t think I’ve ever felt better.” She looks up at him, guessing he’s worried. “I’m fine, truly.” She smiles again, turning her gaze back down. “We both are.”

He reaches out with the utmost of tenderness to smooth his hand over Duncan’s head of wispy dark blonde hair, wondering if this strapping baby looks anything like he did as a child. Duncan’s hand is fisting in the air as he feeds, his eyes closed.

He’s perfect.

“I can’t believe he’s real,” Alistair whispers.

“I know.” Solona looks so content, even through her tiredness. Duncan soon finishes feeding, and Alistair can see that that both mother and child are dozing off. Carefully he takes Duncan from Solona, who gives him a weary smile, and tucks him in the crib by their bed. He has his own nursery and countless people to watch over him, but for now, tonight, it’ll just be the three of them.

And the crowd of nurses outside the door just in case anything goes wrong, of course.

Alistair watches his son – his _son_ – almost immediately fall asleep, and turns back to Solona, who’s slid down the bed and is watching him, lying on her side.

He quickly strips off his clothes, dragging on some light linen trousers to sleep in, and curls up behind Solona. When he wraps his arm around her, resting his hand lightly on her stomach, she places her own on top of it.

“He’s okay?” She mumbles.

“He’s asleep. He’s fine. If it makes you feel better, I can bring the nurse in now?”

“Mm. In a while,” is the quiet reply.

Brushing her hair out of the way, Alistair places a kiss on her neck and then on her cheek. When Solona turns her head to his he presses a chaste kiss to her lips, aware that she’s tired.

“Get some sleep,” he whispers, relieved when she nods.

Her hand squeezes his as she settles down. “I love you, Alistair.”

He smiles against her hair. “I love you too, Solona. Now rest, and we’ll both see you in the morning.”

A ghost of a smile crosses her face as she rests her head on the pillow, but she doesn’t close her eyes. Like him, he’s watching their son.

Alistair makes himself more comfortable against her, careful not to disturb her. Outside, he can hear the celebrations taking place in the distance. Just outside this room, he can hear the low hum of conversation, and he knows that there will be any number of people out there throughout the night, and that the nurse will be back at some point to check on the babe and Solona. But other than that they’re only to be disturbed if there’s an emergency and only if it’s on the level of another Blight. Anything else can wait until morning.

And inside the room there’s the sound of the crackling fire, and the steady breathing of both his wife and his son. Solona is still holding his hand against her, and is lying back against his chest. Alistair is also tired, and he knows he should sleep. And he will, eventually, but now, in this moment of peace, he just wants to lie here, curled against his wife, watching her and Duncan sleep, knowing that they are _here_ , and that they are both safe. It’s still incredible to him that she’s here, _that he got her back_ , and now they have a child, who he already loves with every bit of devotion as he loves Solona.

He will never take this for granted. He knows too well how loneliness and grief could seep into a person, wounding just as deep as a physical cut. And it’s now, as he and Solona lie together in this quiet room watching their son sleep, that he feels like that wound has finally healed completely. Pressing his lips to the back of Solona’s neck, he sees her turn her head slightly to him with a smile, and her eyes fall closed. She’s soon asleep, a content expression on her face, and it’s not long before Alistair is also dozing off despite his best efforts to stay awake, and this small, impossible family spends it’s first night together in quiet peace and hope for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS DONE. 
> 
> (Yes, Duncan is a very cliché name, I know.) 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who has read/left kudos/commented/etc. I really appreciate it, and it helped to motivate me to keep working at this fic when I got very stuck with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this fic is named after a Boyz II Men Song.
> 
> It was also originally a one-shot that has gotten a little out of hand. 
> 
> Also, I really love that concept art of King Alistair in Inquisition where he has the the slightly longer hair and the beard. So just... picture that. It's nice.


End file.
